


A Light In The East

by Spiced_Wine



Series: A Crucible of Stars [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erotica, Kink, M/M, Mpreg, Multi, Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-15
Updated: 2011-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:36:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 112,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crossover gift-story between <a href="viewuser.php?uid=1">Esteliel's</a> <a href="viewstory.php?sid=14">Ethuil'waew</a> and my Dark Prince verse.</p><p>What would have happened had Legolas not been able to flee to Imladris and Glorfindel when he found he was pregnant? What if he fell into entirely different hands?<br/>~~~<br/>After the Last Alliance, Vanimórë, freed for a time from Sauron's control, made himself the ruler of a Sud Sicanna, a wealthy city in the Harad. Five hundred years later, he journeys to Szrel Kain on the Sea of Rhun where rulers of the East are meeting to discuss renewing their attacks upon Gondor. Vanimórë goes to gather information, to keep his finger on the pulse of events.<br/>Legolas, banished from his home, wanders into the hands of a clan traveling back to Rhun after a summer of trading. The Men, afraid he will bring ill-luck on them, mean to sell him, and in lands where the Dark Gods are worshiped Legolas' uniqueness would mean sacrifice, the death of both himself and the child he bears: Glorfindel's son.<br/>He falls instead into the hands of the Dark Prince, the son of Sauron, who understands neglect and abuse only too well...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ~ A Fractured Heart ~

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Ethuil'waew](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9057) by [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel). 



> ~ After the Last Alliance, Vanimórë, freed for a time from Sauron's control, made himself the ruler of a Sud Sicanna, a wealthy city in the Harad. Five hundred years later, he journeys to Szrel Kain on the Sea of Rhun where rulers of the East are meeting to discuss renewing their attacks upon Gondor. Vanimórë goes to gather information, to keep his finger on the pulse of events.  
> ~~~  
> Legolas, banished from his home, wanders into the hands of a clan traveling back to Rhun after a summer of trading. The Men, afraid he will bring ill-luck on them, mean to sell him, and in lands where the Dark Gods are worshiped Legolas' uniqueness would mean sacrifice, the death of both himself and the child he bears: Glorfindel's son.  
> ~~~  
> He falls instead into the hands of the Dark Prince, the son of Sauron, who understands neglect and abuse only too well...  
> ~~~  
>  _Glorfindel felt anguish as deep as a crack in the world in Vanimórë's soul._
> 
>  _“I know how Legolas feels better than thou canst imagine. Thou didst name me Vanimórë. That is my name in truth. Thou hast penetrating sight, or did. Vanimórë Gorthaurion. The son of Sauron holds and will protect Legolas Thranduilion and_ thy son _. Is that not wonderfully ironic, Glorfindel?”_  
>  ~~~  
> Book I of [A Crucible Of Stars ](viewseries.php?seriesid=1)

Some notes for this story.

There were few times when Vanimórë was outside Sauron's influence until the War of the Ring. For this story I have used his greatest time of freedom: the early Third Age, when he ruled Sud Sicanna in the Harad for about 1000 years. Esteliel's series takes place much later, in the late Third Age, but Vanimórë was not free at that time, thus I have to wind the clock back on her Legolas' age, as I do in my own AU, making Legolas in that older than Elgalad. (who was born in 1982 TA)  
Since Vanimóre would need a reason to travel from the Harad up to the Sea of Rhun, I have placed this story shortly after King Tarostar of Gondor drove back invasions of Easterlings out of Rhun, and I have invented a Council (rather like a summit meeting) that rulers from Rhun and the Harad might have attended, including Vanimórë.

Mirkwood was not called Mirkwood until approximately 1050 T.A. when the shadow of Sauron fell upon it, so in this story it is still called the Greenwood, or Eryn Lasgalen. There is no Esgaroth as yet but there were apparently Men in the Vales of Anduin, and in Rhovannion, (including a self-styled Prince of Rhovannion) and I have said that there was trade between the North and people from the East. It might have been disrupted by the wars against Gondor, but at the time of this story there has been peace for a few years. Trade is very durable, and merchants are hardy, look at those who traversed the Silk Road!

  
~~~

 **A Fractured Heart.**

They say that Elves remember everything.

All Legolas remembered about that long journey was sickness and grief.

He had set out to ride to Imladris. There was no other choice but death, and he could not die. The child within him deserved life. Because his father had spoken of killing him, and if he were caught in the forest, he thought there would be more than one warrior willing to act on the king's behalf, he judged it wiser to ride east, then north and take the way between the Grey Mountains and the north march of Eryn Lasgalen. It was a wild land where sometimes, orcs and wolves hunted. If Men traveled that way they did so in armed companies.  
Lainiell, steady, clever and quick, had smelled danger before Legolas was aware of it, and had whipped around, running east.

A storm had rolled in from Rhovannion, and when the clouds emptied their bellies, both Legolas and Lainiell were drenched. He could hardly see five paces ahead, though he guessed the Long Lake was close, though there was no shelter to be had there. He knew now that he might die before he ever reached Imladris. And Glorfindel, father of his child.

Shivering with grief, with the weakness of his strange condition and the nausea that rampaged through it, Legolas was jerked from his despair when dark shapes rose before him. Lightning turned the rain white for a moment, showing the shape of roofed wagons drawn in a circle. Lainiell whinnied and Legolas had begun to back her when a door opened. Lamplight spilled out and with it, two men. One of them held up a covered lantern, and Legolas saw a swarthy face, young and neat-bearded. The man said something in a strange tongue, then, in Westron, “Come! Come.”

Legolas found himself half sliding from Lainiell's wet back. The other man lead her away and he exclaimed in protest.

“We put her under cover,” the man with the lantern said. “Come!”

Warmth slapped him as he was guided into the wagon. He had a confused impression of scents, bright cloth, and two women with long scarves about their hair, twists of blue and green. There came another burst of incomprehensible language and then one of them came forward. Her face was broad and seamed, her eyes very dark. She exclaimed in the Common Speech, " _Shendi !_ "

There was a flurry of movement. Legolas tried to struggle as the women stripped him of his soaking clothes, but they handled him easily, and a moment later he was sitting on soft cushions with thick wool about him. A cup of something hot was placed in his hands and he smelled honey and apples. He sipped on reflex and felt it run hot down his throat.  
And then he got up very fast and staggered to the door, and was sick.

After that, he only knew that he was laid down, the voices faded and he slept the sleep of exhaustion.

He woke to movement. For a heartbeat he wondered where he was, and then remembered. The wagon was moving. He heard the splash of wheels through water-filled ruts, but there was no drumming of rain on the roof. Cautiously he moved his head.

The interior was larger than he had expected. There was a cloth curtain hung across it, and beyond he heard voices. Everything looked as neat as a soldier's tent, with cooking utensils stacked and many bags of woven reeds hanging from hooks on the walls and swaying gently as the wagon rolled on.

He moaned and curled up, and at the sound the curtain whisked back and the older woman came through. With some creaking of joints, she knelt beside him, and perforce, he looked back at her. She lifted a cup of water to his lips.

He realized, after, that they had kept him quiescent with some drug in the gruel that they fed him, thin, but savory. All he knew then was lassitude, sleep, and the half-dreams, half-memories of the golden-haired warrior who had taken his innocence, and with them came the terrible, yearning shame of the pleasure he had felt amid the pain.

 _“Beauty such as yours should be used, should be owned...”*_

 _Hair like running gold, eyes so blue there seemed no end to their depth, warm muscled flesh against his, lips that drank everything that he was._

 _“Do not deny your own pleasure - admit it !”*_

 _“Sleep, and never forget my face. Never forget that it was Glorfindel of Imladris who took your innocence and showed you pleasure.”*_

His heart seemed to fall away inside his breast. He put a hand over his mouth to stifle his moan, and the tears slid hot down his cheeks.

~~~

“Do you know how rich this will make us?” Turuk had demanded in glee, thumping one fist into his palm. “Do you know...” he sought for words. “What price one of the Shining Ones would bring?”

“Fool,” his mother spat. “All it will bring you is ill-luck if you mistreat him.”

Turuk's brother and wife nodded, the latter more vehemently than the former.

“We have done it no wrong,” Turuk protested defensively. “I would not mistreat it, mother. It walked right into our camp as if sent by the Goddess.”

“ _He_ is sick.”

“And you are looking after it, _him,_ surely it will bless us. ”

“Not if you sell him.” His mother stabbed a finger at him. “And I know not what ails him. He may be dying. He is as greensick as a girl carrying her first child.” Her eyes met those of Turuk's wife, who said, in her pretty voice, “It is true. What if he dies, and brings a curse down on us? You should let him go, clan-brother, when he is well.”

“Arah,” he appealed and then to his brother.

“It is a risk,” Malath conceded. “What if his people come after him and think we have taken him like thieves?”

“We did not ! We have not. And it has been seven days. What has he said, mother?”

“Very little. He talks in his own tongue.” Gushadi glanced back toward the wagon. She said, reluctantly, “I asked him if he wished to leave.”

“What did he say?” Turuk asked.

“He said he had nowhere to go.”

“Ah ! Outcast, you think?”

She spread her hands. For five hundred years the Mhadi had traveled from the Sea of Rhun up to the lands about the Long Lake, trading the beautifully woven blankets and shawls the tribe were famed for. None had ever returned with one of the Shining Folk. But once, before the Great War, the Mhadi had been of the Balchoth, and old tales had come down to them of the _Shendini,_ of their strength and swiftness, their star-bright eyes, their magic. Gushadi had never heard that they suffered sickness, but to her mind there was no question that this one was ill. She nursed him as tenderly as if he were her own, and not only because she feared him. Something in him evoked a need to care. Arah felt the same, and she was scarce out of girlhood. The trouble was, Gushadi thought, her family were too young to have learned wisdom.

“I tell you this,” she said, “Your father would not have thought of wealth. What good is wealth with a _Shendini_ blood-curse on your head?”  
Her husband had died last summer, suddenly, unexpectedly, clutching at his chest. He had been mourned with due rites, but Gushadi knew that, respect him though they had, her sons saw his death as an opportunity to become great men within the tribe, perhaps its leaders. They were ambitious, another curse of the young.

“No-one will come after him,” Turuk decided. “Not now. If he dies, he dies, but it will not be through lack of care, and if he lives...”

“The Council,” Malath said.

The brothers looked at one another, eyes gleaming with uncomplicated greed.

After the Great Battle, the Men whom had fought for Sauron had found themselves without one mighty overlord. Some aspired to take the Dark Lord's place, and failed, but most were too embroiled in the politics and power-shifts of their own lands to reach so high.  
There was this to be said for Sauron: he had imposed a certain stability. Once again tribe fought against tribe and nation against nation, mauling at one another until, in the year 490, they looked further afield, to Gondor, and crossed the Dagorlad. The attacks which had ended five years ago, when King Tarostar of Gondor had driven them back. An uneasy peace had ensued, but the men of the Harad and Rhun were not discouraged, and thus they had called the Great Council. The Prince of Szrel Kain, that old city north of the Sea of Rhun and beyond the reach of Gondor's mailed fist, had been planning it for years, and it had taken much political maneuvering and bribes for it to come about. Kings and their entourages were not the only people heading for Szrel Kain; every-one who could buy or sell would be there.

“We could make a fortune,” Turuk breathed, as if just thinking about so much wealth choked his voice.

His mother waved a hand in irritation and returned to her wagon. After a moment, Lania joined her. The men were talking enthusiastically; there came the chink of cups. Gushadi closed the door. The _Shendi_ watched them from great blue eyes.

“Why did you say nothing?” Arah whispered.

“I will have to, but what do men know of such things?” Gushadi moved to the bed. “You,” she said, “You carry a babe, yes?”

He sat up, staring from her to Arah.

“I thought you sick,” she went on. “But we have washed you, seen your body. I thought it a stone growing in your belly, but our tales say the _Shendini_ do not suffer the diseases of Men. You have a man's parts, but your breasts swell to bring in the milk.”

“Yes,” he said softly, and that one word quivered.

“Is it so with all your kind? Men can have children?”

“No. No. It is a...curse upon my line.”

“A curse? You are touched by the Mother.” As his fair, lovely face showed no comprehension she sighed, and said, “You cannot stay here. But you cannot go, either. You are not strong.”

“I am...stronger than I was.” Legolas curved a hand over his stomach.

“How long?” she asked.

“I do not know.” Legolas felt a strange, dislocated sense of panic. “This is...rare. Our women carry a child for twelve moons. If it is the same with me, then it will be close to the Longest Day.”

“Are you truly outcast?” Arah asked shyly.

“Yes.” Legolas looked away and blinked, and Gushadi bit her lip and made a sign, her two hands forming a cup.  
“I am cursed.” And his voice broke.

~~~

Were it not for the kindness of the women, Legolas believed he would have died. So far down in his misery and nausea, he was yet aware of how they tended him. He had not objected when Gushadi stripped and washed him; what more could possibly shame him? As the wagon wheels rolled the season behind him and he felt the cooler air come down from the North, he wept for many reasons. He did not care where he was going; everything within him was bent toward the child. And there was no respite, no escape even in sleep. Glorfindel waited in in that place where Elven dreams are birthed, and Legolas relived everything. Sometimes, which was worse than all, because it was like a cruel mockery of his deepest, most foolish hopes, he felt Glorfindel holding him, heard him say, tenderly, _“Pen villen... Legolas villen nín.”*_  
It would throw him from sleep, into the wasteland of grief.

The change came gradually, an awareness of less queasiness and a little more appetite. He was still very tired, still slept a great deal, and as he did not know what to expect of his body, he had to assume this was normal. And he was impossibly frightened.

~~~

And so Legolas vanished from the Greenwood on the storm-wind of Thranduil's rage. The king never spoke of him. He might never have existed. It seemed as if only one person in all the realm remembered him: Celeirdúr.

When Legolas was sent to guard the horses, Celeirdúr did not think much about him, but his youngest brother was there, somewhere. Now he was gone and after the anger had come guilt and fear. Legolas had done wrong, but out of ignorance, not malice. He had not even known he might get pregnant. The king should have told him the history of their family, of Elvýr, of the queen. Celeirdúr knew that there was an untouchable abyssal pain in his father, yet had Legolas not been sent away from the halls, this would never have happened. He thought of Legolas' delight whenever he spoke a kind word, dropped as carelessly as a tree shedding its blossoms, yet how Legolas had responded to such attention! Celeirdúr had found it a little amusing, but now he berated himself as a boor who, concerned with his own duties and the court, had simply not wanted to recognize how lonely the youth was. And he had given himself to a strange man who had probably smiled at him. Was it any wonder?

As autumn burnished the beech-leaves to bronze, Celeirdúr imagined Legolas' flight from the forest, wondered where he had gone, and thought of him alone, pregnant, confused.

Dead.

The thought was so insupportable that Celeirdúr could not believe that no-one else even mentioned it, or not in his hearing. Galuron might never have had a younger brother, and their father lived within a steel wall of pain and hatred. Celeirdúr found himself more and more often riding deeper into the forest with a few trusted warriors, or north, out of the realm, hoping to find some trace of Legolas. His mare, Lainiell, was gone. She could be trusted not to ride into danger, but if Legolas had gone to find the man who had fathered his child, been captured by orcs or hunted by Fell-wolves, there might be nothing left to find.

When winter turned its back, Celeirdúr was ordered to take a company west. The smoldering war between Lasgalen and Imladris fed on the spring as if it were fuel, and Thranduil wished to see if there were any signs of Imladrian warriors in the north. Celeirdúr was to ride upriver to the confluence of the Greylin and Langwell, then turn east again along the north marches of the forest. The warriors would stay close to the woods, and no-one, Imladrian warrior, Man, orc or wolf, would follow them in and come out again, although the wood-Elves preferred to take hostages rather than kill. Imladrian warriors provided good bargaining counters.

The long patrol should have gone as many others had. Save for the king himself, there was no more skilled warrior in the Greenwood than Celeirdúr; he was no cossetted prince who stayed in the halls while others fought. The Stirring was slowly breathing life into sap and rootlet, and there was no sign or sense of danger. The weather was cool but dry with a pale, winter-worn sky and the Silvans could see for leagues. What better opportunity could there be to cross the Anduin and see if there was any movement in the High Pass? Thranduil had not ordered any such reconnaissance, but Celeirdúr was long used to making his own decisions. It was, however, a deliberate act of aggression, because the unspoken boundary between Imladris and the Greenwood was the Great River.

Foolish, Celeirdúr thought after, to have gone across the mountains, into the wild country that Elrond's people had long reconnoitered, but when they bivouacked for the last night before turning back, he knew he had been as careful as he could be in choosing a place, lighting no fires, setting a watch and blending with the leafless trees.

Nevertheless, they were discovered.

It was a close-quarter fight, bitter and aggressive, but even as he leaped back to gain more room to use his long knives, Celeirdúr felt an arm about him and a dagger pressed against his throat. After that, his warriors laid down their weapons. One of them escaped; the prince had standing orders that if he were ever taken by Imladris, any-one who could should escape to take the news to the king. The Imladrian warriors did not attempt to stop him. They wanted him to go, he guessed.

After that, the journey to Imladris was enlivened only by the barbed remarks aimed at him, to which he first responded and then, knowing it was more effective, erected a stony silence against. It was almost a relief to see, unexpected and he admitted, beautiful, the fabled valley of Imladris, with it's great house, the glimpse of gardens, a green slope of south-facing vineyards and the silver fall of water.

He had not lied about his identity. It would have been futile to do so. Even if Elladan Elronion believed him, his braids and the intertwined beech leaf and niphredil insignia on his clothes marked him as a scion of the House of Oropher. Riders must have gone ahead, for, when he was brought, by way of wide corridors to Elrond's chambers, the son of Eärendil looked only satisfied, not a whit surprised.

He was not alone. Two men stood each side of him. One was dark haired, the other's was a gleaming mass of thick golden curls, caught back and pinned with gems. His eyes were bluer than cobalt and his mouth had an arrogant, sultry curve.

Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower. Reborn Elf-lord of Gondolin.

Those beautiful blue eyes narrowed on him, as if the _Golodh_ were reading his mind.

Both Imladris and Lasgalen knew what could happen to captured prisoners; both had tales of ill-use. Certes, neither had clean hands, the hatred there ran two ways and was old and curdled. But Celeirdúr was a prince. There was nothing, Elrond believed, that Thranduil would not do to get his son back. It might even be the way to a lasting peace. Therefore Celeirdúr was treated as a hostage, but one of rank, and the chamber he was taken to had some comforts. The window was high and small, perhaps it had once been a storage room before the war. Bars ran across the glass, driven deep into the wall on the outside. There was a narrow bed, a table, a wooden chair and an ante-room which served both as a privy and bathing place. The guards placed wine and food on the table and withdrew. He heard a key turn and a bar drop into place. Now alone, he allowed his defenses to drop, slamming his hands against the wall and bowing his head against it.

 _I am sorry father. I was rash._

But he knew what had truly driven him was the desire to find some word of Legolas. And Imladris was the last place he would find it. He must have been insane.

~~~

Glorfindel came at dusk. He brought a lamp and hung it from a bracket in the wall. Celeirdúr, lying on his bed, sat up as the door opened, and stared.

Glorfindel set his shoulders against the door.  
“You remind me of some-one,” he said without preamble.

“You know who I am, I have not denied it.” Celeirdúr spoke sharply. “What does it matter who I remind you of?”  
His reaction was half anger at his position, half reflexive bravado. He was very conscious of Glorfindel's proximity and power. The Silvan Elves might hate the _Golodhrim,_ but Glorfindel's fame was legend, and it was merited. He was not a man called Glorfindel, he _was_ Glorfindel. With all that implied.

“It does not.” Glorfindel shrugged. “I am here to tell you what privileges you may expect as Thranduil's son. You are fortunate that you _are_ his son,” he added with a bite. “and that we desire an end to this war.”

“I know what happens to soldiers caught by the Imladrians',” Celeirdúr lashed. “I need no reminders.”

“So do we know what happens to our own warriors captured by the Elves of the Greenwood,” Glorfindel's eyes held such a perilous light that Celeirdúr had to physically stop himself from backing away. “We have never had the kind of leverage to force peace before. But of Thranduil's three sons' you, by all the reports we have, are his favored one. A gift from the Valar to us. Your fears are groundless.”

“I am not afraid.” Celeirdúr's lip curled. “Yes, this will _force a peace._ My father is unfortunate in his sons.”

“Truly. I would not have expected you to make such an error of judgment.” Glorfindel stared at him. That turn of the head, the touch of the lamplight on the straight nose, molding the cheekbone... _Where_ had he seen that before? “You will be allowed some freedom. We will allow you to walk under guard, and bound. Do not try and escape. You will not be killed, but you _will_ be disabled. Is that clear?”

The prince shot him a furious glance. “As dew,” he snarled. “I made a mistake, but there was reason behind it.”

“You do not need to explain your foolishness.” Glorfindel's voice was honeyed. Of course he wanted to know. It was rare the Silvans crossed the High Pass, and usually done when they were following captured warriors or wanted to taunt Imladris. He needed to know if Celeirdúr had been acting alone, or if his incursion were a precursor to another, larger one. Not that it mattered now; Glorfindel knew that there would be no attack on Imladris, but it was as well to be prepared. He did not want any of his patrols riding into an ambush.

“I do not make mistakes of that kind,” Celeirdúr said icily. “I was searching for any trace of my brother.”

“Galuron?” Glorfindel was surprised.

“Legolas. My youngest brother. My father has only two sons' left.”

“That is remarkably careless of him.”

Celeirdúr threw himself toward Glorfindel, only to find his own momentum used against him. Suddenly he was on his knees on the floor, one arm behind his back.

“Another mistake, pretty prince.”

And looking down at Celeirdúr, as he turned his head, pain flashing across his features, Glorfindel suddenly knew whom he looked like.

“Tell me.” He pulled Celeirdúr to his feet and thrust him onto the chair.

“It is nothing to do with the war. It will not help you in any way.”

“I will judge that.” Glorfindel poured wine and pushed the cup across the table.

“Legolas was banished,” the prince said roughly.

“ _Banished?_ What on Arda for. Is he not very young?”  
Banishment was a rare punishment and a dreadful one for any Elf. Elrond had never pronounced it in Imladris.

“He is forty.”

Glorfindel, who had wanted a child in his first life, and carried the longing like an old wound that would not heal, said harshly, “Thranduil must be mad.”

“You know nothing whatsoever about it!” Celeirdúr cried. “You _Golodhrim_ think you know so much about us ! My father had his reasons...” His eyes lowered, and the thick fan of his lashes reminded Glorfindel of a hot, secret day beside a forest pool and a youth...His face gave nothing away.

“But you do not agree with his reasons.”

“No! Legolas was so young...!”

“And so, _why_ was he banished?”

“He...was pregnant.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Yes, this is one of the things you do not know.” Celeirdúr looked up. “There is a curse on the men of our line. Some can get with child.”

“I have heard it can happen,” Glorfindel said steadily. As long ago as the First Age there had been such rumors, although he had not known that Thranduil's House carried this secret. “I would not call it a curse.”

“Would you not?” Celeirdúr demanded. “Not if one were raped by an orc? Because it happens, and you _do_ know that. It happened to one of my brothers, and the orc-seed grew in him.”

Yes, such things happened. Rape was a weapon of war as surely as arrows and swords.

“He died?”

“They say we all die of rape, but is it that easy?” Celeirdúr's words came now in a bitter, rushing torrent. “When there are people you love, who love you, so that you cling to life?” He choked, swallowed and spat, “My father had to give him the mercy of death; Elvýr, his firstborn, who was mad with agony from the Orc-spawn growing in his belly, poisoning him.” He put his hands over his face, and for a moment Glorfindel could think of nothing to say, nothing at all. He allowed Celeirdúr to gather his dignity, even as his mind recoiled in horror at the thought.

“When Legolas was born, with the same curse, and looking so much like Elvýr, my father sent him away, out of the halls, so he would not have to be reminded of my brother, or my mother, who ended her life. He did not want to see Legolas. Ever. He was an open wound.”

“But you did?”

“Not often enough.”

“But what if he did get pregnant, surely he could choose a mate for himself, young though he is.”

“No. Father would not have permitted it. And Legolas...he was a sweet child, he only wanted to be loved.” Celeirdúr seemed to realize he had placed Legolas in the past tense and he groaned. “He was sent to look after the horses, out of sight and mind, and he should have been safe enough, there. My father did consider that: his safety. But some Man came, some Mortal, I know not how, for it should have been impossible. But he got Legolas with child. And my father banished him. I was not there...” He slammed a hand into the table, rattling the wine jug. “And Legolas _did not know!_ I should have told him, but why burden him? he is not even of age. There seemed to be time...!” He flashed an upward look. “I thought of him alone, not knowing what was happening to him... So, why do you not laugh at the curse on my house, _Lord Glorfindel._ ”

“Why would you think Legolas would be in Imladris?” Glorfindel was not laughing. That beautiful youth in Lasgalen, untouched and tender, whom he had wanted, had well nigh raped, but pleasured, too. (And nevertheless, nevertheless...) Was it possible? No, it could not be, but as he looked at Celeirdúr, he saw the similarities that had tugged at his memory, brought on by a play of light, an expression, that look of pain and fear as Glorfindel stood over him.

“I do not know. I had searched as far as I could in the forest and found nothing. The Men I asked had seen naught. I hoped I would find him with this Man. It would be shame, but better than his being dead.” Celeirdúr turned his back, but not before Glorfindel saw the gloss of tears in his eyes. And that too evoked a memory...~

~~~

 

 

*Quotations taken from Glorfindel's words in Ethuil'waew and Cuil Eden.


	2. ~ Caught In His Arms ~

  
“We cannot keep him!” Turuk shouted. “What would we do with him, her, whatever it is?”

“You cannot sell him,” Gushadi said flatly. “It would be to send him to his death.”

“And if we keep him, you know we will be banished from the clan! They will call him a demon and drive us away! It is wrong!”

“You dare call the touch of the Mother wrong?”

“I do not like it either,” Malath interposed. “To see ...him growing like a woman.”

“There is no wrong in him,” Arah said. “His is a gentle heart.”

“His own people cast him out! Is that not proof enough that there is dark magic at work here? We cannot hide him once we are back with the tribe.” Turuk looked from his mother to his wife. “And what if the babe is some demon spawn, eh?”

“Bah!” Gushadi snapped her fingers. “He has been given a gift by the Goddess. Her hand is over him, and she lead him to us that we might protect him.”

“I want to hear no more talk of _her_ when we reach Szrel Kain,” Turuk warned. “There will be too many who follow the Dark One.” He tugged angrily, nervously at his beringed ear.

“And you know what _they_ will do if they buy him,” his mother pressed. “Sacrifice him to _the Dark One!_ Your money will be dipped in his blood and that of his child !”

~~~

Legolas sat back against the wall, hands on his stomach. He had come to understand a little of the language these people used. It had been a slow process, thoughts, emotions and impressions building into a word. For most of the journey he had not cared, and Gushadi spoke fluent Westron when told him about her people, like a mother telling stories to a child.

 _The man was going to sell him._

He cradled his rounded belly, as if he would protect the child within, the child that he had come to want, come to love, some-one he could love.

 _Sacrifice..._

The wagon was warm, but Legolas felt as if he had eaten ice, that it spread through every vein, froze every limb.

 _Please !_ he thought, not knowing who to pray to any more, _Help me._

~~~

Gushadi came in later, with a bowl of some roasted fowl, seasoned with herbs. Legolas looked from the bowl into her face, the lines about her mouth etched deep, and said, “Please. Help me to escape.”

She put a hand to her breast.

“ _Shendi_ magic,” she whispered. “I _thought_ you understood us.”

“Only a little,” he said. “Let me go, please !”

She shook her head. “You cannot go alone, that will be death as much as the other.”

“I am afraid to be sacrificed.” He closed his eyes. How would they do it? Cut open his belly and....A shudder wracked him. “Or let me remain here until the child is born and care for it. Then sell me, and look after my child.”

The lamplight caught the tears on her cheeks. “We reach Szrel Kain in two days. The Mother will curse my son for this, but it will not help you, Shining One. He fears you, in truth, and what you bear.”

“A babe,” Legolas felt his own eyes overflow. “The child of an Elf-lord of renown.”  
 _Who melted my bones when I saw him, and then there was such pain I thought I would die...before he took that and made it ecstasy. I should have gone to my father and told him that Glorfindel himself had come within our defenses. And I did not. I betrayed my people because..._

He felt the woman's dry, calloused fingers on his cheek.

“Hush,” she murmured. “I will speak to my son again in the morning. he is ambitious, not evil. You must rest, now. I will bring you a drink of something to calm you.”

He clung to her hand for a moment, looking into her eyes, and nodded. As she left, he lay back, the silent tears welling like a spring.

 _Eru help me ! Save my child !_

~~~

“It was he,” Glorfindel reiterated, when Elrond did not speak. “The youngest son of Thranduil sent to guard their horses as if he were a servant. I wish I had known.”

“Why?” Elrond asked, looking up. “Would you not have wanted him?”

“It would have been doubly pleasurable.”

“I am sure.”

“Are you – is it possible I hear censure in your words, my friend? He enjoyed what I gave him, and so much that he did not reveal my presence to Thranduil. In the days after I was sure he would report me. I had given him my name. Yet there was no alarum, nothing.”

“And he missed your touch so much he let some Man take him, thereby putting flesh on the bones of Thranduil's greatest fears.”

“It would seem so.” Glorfindel saw something in Elrond's eyes that stopped his next words for a moment, and then, roughly he said, “Why do you look at me thus?”

“I know you felt bound to enter Mirkwood, bound to discover what had happened to your men. I would expect nothing less of you. You are a warrior twice over, my warriors learn everything they could need to from you. ” Elrond pressed his hands on the table and rose. “You said you found it easy enough to evade Thranduil's patrols.”

“Easy enough. It required more stealth to get through the outer perimeter than penetrate the inner. They are more lax so close to their halls.”

“How easy would it have been for a Man?”

“Not as easy,” Glorfindel admitted. “It would depend on their woodcraft, and after all, there are Men who have allied themselves with Thranduil. Perhaps one would go unregarded.”

“Possible but not very likely. It seems that Celeirdúr's instincts were right, as far as they went. There _was_ a connection between his brother and us.”

“Elrond, but perhaps you can cease this roundaboutation. What is your meaning?”

“Perhaps there was no Man. Perhaps the youngest son of Thranduil lied, in fear that he had not exposed you, and that it was your seed that had got him with child. You, an enemy of his people. Where have your wits gone? Do not tell me you have not considered it !”

This time the silence was of Glorfindel's making. He turned away, then pivoted on the ball of his foot. “I did,” he said. “But I hoped you would not.”

Elrond made a sound that was not a laugh. “He might have been carrying your child, and now...”

“I could not know that ! Hells, no-one knew of this, Thranduil kept that secret locked tight !”

“Yes, he did. And I can understand why. One does not show a wolf one's underbelly. I pity him, though he would curse me for it.”

“So do I. But peace is within our reach now, Elrond. Apparently he cared naught for his youngest, so even had I known who Legolas was, and brought him back, it would have availed us nothing. Celeirdúr is another thing entirely. Thranduil will sign a peace-treaty in his own blood if we demand it.”

“Yes, I think he will,” Elrond sounded distant. “It seems no-one cared for Legolas Thranduilion.” He looked up suddenly and his grey eyes were hard. “And now, no-one ever will.”

~~~

“Gods, no. Really, why would I?”

“They call you the Eyes of Sauron.”  
And those eyes were unnerving, a rich, brilliant purple.

“Dost thou doubt it?”

“No,” Kremesh, Lord of Khugavod looked away. “But then, I wonder why you would not. Surely it would please the Great Lord.”

“Thou art not thinking of Sauron, any of thee,” The one they also called the Dark Prince, laughed. “Gondor is a rich land; all of thee have a grudge against the Men of Númenor. Do not hide greed under the mantle of religious devotion. Besides,” he rose. “Sauron has a far more personal hatred of the people of Gondor than thou canst imagine. He will want to deal with them himself, in time.”

“Then he will return?”

“Of course.”

Kremesh believed him. Oh, the priests prophesied and made sacrifice, but the truth was, Sauron had been gone for so long that those who had fallen under his sway cared little whether he ever returned or not. He was a legend. But so, in a different way, was this man. There were tales all over the world of the violet-eyed warrior who served Sauron, had served him for thousands of years. There was many legends surrounding Sauron and Kremesh, a pragmatic man, dismissed most of them. But some he could not dismiss and the Dark Prince was one of them. His arrival for the Council had been unanticipated, but initially Kremesh and those who had come to forge a new unity against Gondor, saw it as hopeful. Sud Sicanna's army was said to be magnificent. It could tip the balance. But, when Kremesh decided to visit the prince in his encampment west of Szrel Kain, he almost immediately sensed there would be drawbacks. He could easily foresee this one taking command. Perhaps the prince's refusal to throw his weight behind another series of attacks was a relief. At least, so he would tell his brother-rulers.

“Then, if I may ask, why are you here? It is a long way to come.”

“I _am_ the Eyes of Sauron,” the prince said, mockery in his lilting voice. “I can assure thee, everything I see, _He_ knows.”

~~~

Legolas eased himself into a long robe and searched for his boots. Sometimes in the last weeks he walked on the edge of the camp. It was the reason Gushadi had at last revealed his pregnancy to her sons. Legolas needed some exercise, she said, and his belly could not be hidden. He had felt the mens eyes on him and their horror of something so inexplicable. Gushadi had been right; they would not allow him to remain, they were afraid of what he was. Well, so was he.

Beside him, the drink of goat-milk, herbs and honey lay untouched and skinning over. He knew it would have helped him sleep, knew that Gushadi gave him potions to keep him calm, and believed that there had been kindness in her actions, even tonight. He had seen it in her face: if he drank that cup he would never wake up.  
Kindness.  
She wanted to spare him fear and a terrible death. He tied the cloak at his throat. It was woven of silky goat hair and smelled faintly oily, but was warm. There was nothing else he could take except Lainiell, and he could not ride her in his condition. She had followed the wagon, not needing to be roped to it, and her loyalty had brought tears to his eyes. So much did. He looked again at the drink weighing the two evils, death now, or death later.

The child...

He took down a water-skin from its hook and looped it over his neck, thrust a round of flat-bread into a pouch and crept to the door. The door could be secured from the inside, but he had never heard it bolted from without.

It was deep night. He had waited, knowing that this was the time when the men slept most deeply. There were two youths with them who took turns at guard duty, but the trade road to Szrel Kain was not, even in time of war, a dangerous place. It was heavily traveled, especially now, with many heading for the Great Council, and so close to the city. Many nights Legolas had lain on the edge of dream, hearing the distant sound of other camps, and the call of night-hunting animals, but never any clash of weapon. He had never thought about it before, but it seemed obvious after listening to Gushadi's tales that trade was important to all men. Unless there was utter chaos, it continued. People needed it and were loath to disrupt it.

“Merchants are protected by whatever king or chieftain their lands pass through,” she had said. “They punish wolfsheads severely.”

He stood still after ascending the three small steps to the ground. There was no moon, no stars and he had heard the rise of the wind as he lay in the wagon. There was rain on the air, but it was weak and far away. In Mirkwood this wind would herald mild, blustery weather, the showery, earth-warming rains of early spring. His heart clenched with a spasm of longing for his home.

 _But I have no home._

He jumped as a warm breath blew in his ear. He said nothing, only turned and put his arms about Lainiell's neck for a moment. She drew back and turned, walking purposefully into the dark, neat hooves falling soft on the grass.

He did not know that he had reached the place where terror deadens the mind, that he had reached it long ago, that the child was the only reason he clung to life. He knew he was weak, but not how weak and he was distantly surprised at his body's betrayal of him as he stumbled. Winding a hand in Lainiell's mane, he let her guide him on.  
When grey light slowly wept into the world, he found that his head was pressed against the mare's flank, that he had stopped walking, was almost asleep on his feet. He heard himself whimpering and despised himself.

 _Please..._ and _I am sorry..._

Distant thunder rolled across the land and Lainiell threw up her head with a pealing whinny.

Then there was hoofbeats, hard and fast that stopped abruptly. Legolas felt himself falling – and the arrest of his fall as he was picked up.

“No !” he tried to shout, to struggle, but his voice came out as a desperate whisper. “Please do not kill my child.”

He smelled a spicy-musk odor, felt the warmth of a hard body.

“Hush,” said a voice that sounded like the scent. “Rest. Thou art safe.”

And Legolas let himself drop into darkness.

~~~

He woke to warmth. For a moment he was aware only of comfort, of a feeling of security, and for that, he thought, after a long time of drifting, the arm about him must be responsible. He could not remember ever feeling so safe. That exotic scent was around him, he was held against a long, firm body.

“Ada?” he murmured.

“Sleep. Have no fear.”

He slid back into dreams. When he woke, he was alone. Slowly he pushed himself up, still drowsy.

He was in a tent, but a very large one. The bed he lay on was a mass of wool and furs, there were two chests by one wall and armor mounted on a stand opposite it. It was dark, as if the metal had been blackened, and formed of tiny, flat rings, save for the pauldrons, from which many lamés overlapped. Atop it was a full-face helm from which long plumes of purple rose. Close by was a folding table on which lay scrolls and writing materials, and from an iron-wrought stand hung a lamp, glowing with warm yellow light. His heart bounded as he remembered some-one holding him, and he looked at the two pillows, soft, filled with feathers, which bore the impression of two heads.

There was a sound of movement from without

“ _Kabaki nzesh arún shebat on,”_ said a voice.

Legolas did not understand the words at all. They were not in the Eastern tongue the Mhadi had used, or Westron. He drew back as the inner flap opened and he heard his own startled intake of breath.

The man was dressed entirely in black. A sleeveless leather tunic showed his arms sliced with marks like dagger-strokes in a strange pattern that vanished under the leather. A knife rode at one thigh, and a belt clasped his narrow waist. He was long legged and his build and height were so similar to Glorfindel's that Legolas thought he was looking at an ebony-haired copy of him, but his hair, unlike the curling golden mane he dreamed of, was drawn back high from his face to fall in a thick horse-tail almost to his knees. Gold points winked up the outer shell of his ears to the delicate point.  
He was an Elf, but like none Legolas had ever imagined. His face was polished white stone, and under winging brows his eyes were violet, beautiful, but oddly unnatural.

A young man entered behind him. He _was_ mortal, muscular and bronze-skinned, his hair as thickly curling as the back of a ewe-lamb. He carried a bowl and jug which he set on the table, and after a brief, summing glance at Legolas, he saluted and went out.

“How is it with thee?” the Elf asked in formal perfect Sindarin, as he poured a drink. A homely scent arose: mint and honey. “Try and drink.” He sat on the side of the bed and put an arm about Legolas tense shoulders.

“Who...who are you?” he asked.

“No-one thou needst fear. Now drink.”

“I feel sick.”

The man indicated a wooden bowl on the floor. “If thou art sick, so be it, but we need to get something down thee. Try.”

The spice scent emanated from him, Legolas realized, from flesh and hair. He took a deep breath and sipped. His gorge rose and he gagged, then tried again and waited.

“I am...”

“With child, yes. It is a wonder, but I felt the child move.” He smiled, a white flash of straight teeth, and Legolas stared at him mutely.

“They said I would be sacrificed.”

“Who did?” The smile vanished under the storm of a frown. This was a very frightening man. “Those thou wert traveling with?” He nodded to the cloak, folded over one of the chests. “That is Mhadi work. I have had dealings with them in the past. They are not followers of Sauron.”

“The old woman looked after me, but her sons were going to sell me...she argued with them. She said I would be sacrificed...they were afraid...”

“Tell me,” the man said gently enough, but Legolas recognized a command. As he spoke, he finished the drink and the cup was replaced by a bowl of flummery, sweetened with honey. This was harder, but it was smooth and easy on the stomach, and Legolas made an effort. He had to nourish the baby.

When he had finished, the bowl was taken away and he felt the man position both pillows behind him and sit him up, tucking the coverlets around him. He went down in a hunter's crouch beside the bed and one of his elegant hands clasped Legolas'. His look was deep and for no reason at all, Legolas' heart gave a clap like a bird's wings. He thought he need not tell this strange Elf anything. The violet eyes would see everything he had ever done, everything he was. His shame...He faltered, looked down and began to speak, but he could not bring himself to tell all the truth.

“Bloody Hells,” the Elf murmured. “Now, listen to me: My name is Vanimórë. I am...half-Elf, but I have never lived among the Elves. Nevertheless, I know something of them. I know where the Greenwood lies, and I know of thy father. I am tempted to call him out for this.” He rose quickly, lithe and muscled like a _Golodh_ warrior. “But I live in the South, in the Harad. I am here only because of the Great Council. Perhaps...yes, perhaps the Mother really did have her hand over thee.”

“What will you do with me?” Legolas asked, his words fragmenting in his mouth. “I cannot go back to the forest.”

“Would the man who fathered thy child not own thee?” Then he answered himself as Legolas shook his head. “No. I think many Men would find this impossible to understand. But what father would banish his son for such a reason? Or for any reason?” His jaw clenched. “Well, some perhaps.”

“He was right to do so.”

“No. There is no reason that could suffice.”

“Treason,” Legolas whispered and waited to see the anger change direction and fall upon him.

It did not come.

“Now how couldst thou betray thy people?”

“He is an enemy. And I could not...did not...”

“ _there were no guards searching for me. You did not tell anyone that you gave yourself to me, did you?... I know that you will not tell anyone, just as you did not tell them the last time._ ”*

The deep, smooth voice mocked its way into his memories. He trembled.

“I have heard of the war between the Greenwood and Imladris. News does find its way south. Legolas.” The lilt of the man's accent made something exotic of his name. “Tell me the truth.”

Legolas' throat spasmed. “He was...so _beautiful!_ I thought he liked me... and then, after...my father must have known I could only bring him sh-shame !”

“Look at me.” Vanimórë took Legolas' chin with his free hand. “Did this man force thee?”

Those violet eyes seemed as deep as a well, but he could not answer. Yes, Glorfindel had, but no, how could he have? It was not rape, or Legolas would have died, as he had expected to.

“There are ways and ways for it to be rape, ways for a man of experience to force _and_ make thee enjoy it.”

“I was weak...”

“ _Weak?_ Is that what Thranduil told thee? Thou wert virgin, no?”

Legolas felt hot, nauseous. “Yes, but what does that matter? _I concealed Glorfindel's presence,_ knowing whom he was !” He bit off his words with a gasp at the expression on Vanimórë's face.

“ _Glorfindel?_ He was the one who took thee?”

“You _know_ him?”

“Yes. Once I knew him.” Vanimórë rose. “He came into the Greenwood secretly. He saw thee, and took thee. And left thee to bear Thranduil's anger?”

There was a heartbeat of silence, like the moment before a leaf falls, then Legolas felt the explosion of rage, heard the voice resonate through his mind like a call to battle.

 _Glorfindel! Damn thee to the Void!_

~~~

The words crashed into Glorfindel's mind. There was no warning, it was like a blow coming out of nowhere and it brought him to a halt on the training ground so that the warriors there likewise stopped and stared at him.

He knew the mind as one knows a scent, and his head snapped toward the east.

The strange thrall from the seven year siege of Barad-dûr.

The one he had called Beautiful Darkness.

Vanimórë.

~~~

“Find them and tell me. At once.”

“Yes, Sire. Mhadi. Two young men, an old woman and a younger, and two youths.”

“Start from the place where we found the Elf. They will not come into the city; the Mhadi prefer their wagons.”

The young warrior bowed and left the tent. Vanimórë heard him issue crisp orders. He looked at the tent flap, feeling the turmoil of the youth's mind, his guilt and terror, his sense of worthlessness. It was incredible that he was alive, with that wound in his soul.

 _What have they done to thee?_ he thought. Legolas was young; emotionally, as old as he had been when he killed his sister. But Legolas was not Vanimórë. He was the son of an Elf-king and should have been loved and cherished.

A pregnant man. Vanimórë had never heard of such a thing, but where there were armies, there were always camp-followers, and he had seen childbirth among them and the people he had lead south from Angband long ago. He would have liked to examine Legolas, but it could wait until he had spoken to the woman Gushadi.

Tanout returned before sunset. He spoke a little Westron; Vanimórë required his officers learn more than one language, and it was clear he had made himself understood. A young man and an older woman rode pillion behind he and his second. As the horses slowed, Vanimórë strode forward.

~~~

“He must have a woman's parts inside, Lord,” Gushadi looked at her clenched hands. “He begins to open below, for the passage of the child.”

“Very well. If I know that, I can find a skilled midwife in the city.”

“Lord...”

“Speak.”

“I am glad he escaped to come to you.”

“The hand of the Mother guided him.”

She did look up then. “You are him, are you not? The Dark Prince who came from Mordor long ago.”

The purple eyes smiled. “I know the Mhadi.” His hands formed a cup, the old sign which indicated the Mother's hands cradling the world. “I know Her. I am not angry with thee, clan-mother. Thy care saved him. And there will be no curse upon thee or thine.” He turned to Turuk. Gushadi saw her son blench.

“Thou art fortunate that he left before thou couldst sell him.” His voice went to steel. “My men will take thee back.”

They left with rare ambergris, diamonds from Far Harad, and two of the swift, beautiful desert-bred horses. Turuk might indeed become the leader of his tribe, but he would always swear that he felt eyes watching him from afar.

~~~

Vanimórë hung the lamps upon their stand and turned to Legolas. Sitting up in his nest of furs, the flood of pale gold hair drawn over one shoulder, he looked very vulnerable.

“I want thee to trust me.” He came to the bed. “Tomorrow, we enter the city, where we will remain until thou hast given birth.”

“I do not know _how,_ ” Legolas whispered.

“As a woman does. Thou art a miracle, prince.” He smiled.

“N-no. I am cursed !”

“It is no curse.” Vanimórë's thoughts were violent, but he knew Legolas would see nothing of them. They were not directed at him, after all. Oh yes, very well could he see what Glorfindel had wanted. The prince's face was like an half-open flower, delicate, tender and beautiful, with those great blue eyes and oh-so-kissable mouth. But Glorfindel had done something Vanimórë never had. And he was going to know _exactly_ what he had done.

“Glorfindel always wanted children.” He watched Legolas stiffen. “But he would not marry. He favors men. Thou wilt gift him with something incredibly precious, my dear.”

“But he does not know!”

Vanimórë drew him close, smoothed his back, kissed his brow, his cheeks and finally his lips. “Not yet.” His smile glinted. “ _But he will._ ” ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Quotation by Glorfindel in Ethuil'waew


	3. ~ A Clash of Minds ~

  
**Clash of Minds.**

~ The Old Quarter of Szrel Kain had originally been the enclave of wealthy tradesmen, their houses jealously guarded by high walls. As the city grew outward, the merchants became nobles, and the area a desirable location. Vanimórë had hired the house from a merchant prince whose great grandfather had grown rich on trade out of Sud Sicanna. His descendant, Djen, was more than willing to lease his elegant mansion for a consideration in coin, and trade tariffs tilted in his favor. Hosting the Dark Prince would also add luster to his name, although Vanimórë's entourage was the smallest, it was the most military and he, because of his apparent immortality, the most famous of the rulers to come to Szrel Kain.

As his people stabled their horses and servants took their possessions to their rooms, Vanimórë carried Legolas up to the great bedchamber and laid him gently on a bed that smelled of roses. He unfastened the voluminous cloak that quite swamped the young Elf, effectively concealing him from curious eyes. The clan-mother's fear that he would be sacrificed was not without foundation. There were some priests of the Dark God who would deem him a unique and incredibly powerful offering. Eventually, the rumor would leak out; Vanimórë knew well enough that nothing could be kept secret for long, but he also knew that Dhölkan of Szrel Kain was not a very religious man, preferring the realities of politics and coin. If any-one wished to question Vanimórë about his guest they would have to do so personally.

“I am sure thou wouldst like to bathe later,” he said. “For now, rest. It is important. Rest without worrying what tomorrow may bring. I will not harm thee nor allow others to.”

Legolas looked up quickly. “But I would not take your room, your bed.”

“Ah, that troubles thee? Put it from thy mind. I would not force thee, and even wert thou willing, I would not take thee as thou art.” The enormous blue eyes looked up at him, scared, unblinking and Vanimórë smoothed a hand down the gloss of wheaten hair. “I know nothing about what is happening to thee, but there is more – perhaps _preparation_ is the word? – happening in thy body than there would be in a woman's, I think. And that is hardly surprising. I do not know what sex might do to thee.” Legolas dipped his head, blushing brightly.  
“Also, I wish to care for thee, and let it be seen that thou art untouchable. My men are loyal, but within any tight-knit group there are...rivalries. It is safer for thee to be here with me.” He went through to the antechamber as a knock came on the outer door. A serving woman with keen black eyes and a look of long-earned cynicism bowed over a tray of covered dishes.

“Set them here.” He indicated a table and the woman entered. “Thou art Djen's _Nahma?*_

“Yes, lord.”

“Only thou wilt enter this room, to bring food and linens. No other of this household will cross the threshold.”

“It will be as you say, lord.” Her eyes remained lowered. Servants learned to be discreet and slaves moreso, accepting orders unquestioningly, but the woman was freeborn; her ears were not marked by the clipped out segment of lobe that all slaves of this region bore. She had earned some power and comfort in her position Vanimórë saw. Her robe was of good wool, dyed a deep maroon, and raised to her calves by a belt of fine leather, showing neat boots, an ancient fashion of the eastern tribes. A great ring of keys depended from it. Here was a woman used to thinking for herself while keeping silent. She would be useful.

“I would like to think I can trust thee, Ekesha.”

At her name, she looked up, startled.

“I am your servant, lord.”

“In point of fact thou art Djen's, and well thought of, I can see. No doubt he has asked thee to report to him. I would do the same. But there is nothing to report. Nothing. Dost thou understand?”

She blinked once. “Yes, lord.”

“Nothing I do in this city is a threat to this house, to thy master, or Szrel Kain, and that being said, anything I confide to thee is personal and must be treated as such. I am very generous to those who are honest with me, but – ” He left the threat hovering.

Ekesha bowed. “I understand, lord. I know of you.”

“Good,” he smiled charmingly, and placed a gold coin in her palm. “Come to me in the adjoining chamber an hour after sunset. I require some advice.”

  
~~~

  
Savory smells rose from the dishes as Vanimórë lifted the covers. There was fish from the inland sea, a staple of the cities about Rhun, baked and stuffed with herbs, and made into a soup, a goose, flat bread, hot wine, and the milk he had requested was still cool.

Legolas managed most of the creamy soup, and a few morsels of the tender goose. Some bites of bread and a cup of milk, and he said shyly that it was enough.  
It was something, Vanimórë thought as he showed Legolas to the latrine. These mansions had a bath-house for ablutions, but that could wait until later; his men would be there now, washing away the dirt of travel. He poured warm water into a basin so that Legolas could lave his face and hands.

“My lord...” Legolas began, once again in the bed.

“Call me Vanimórë. I am not thy lord.”

Legolas slim fingers worried at the coverlet. “Why are you helping me?” he asked timidly.

When there was no immediate answer, he looked up. Vanimórë smiled, feeling bitterness in the curve of his mouth.  
“I always wished for some-one to rescue _me,_ ” he said.

“Rescue _you?_ ”

“Yes.” He laid a log on the fire, watched the flames reach and clasp it hungrily as a lover.  
“I heard thee: An Elf-mind, close, calling for help. I feel the differences between Men and Elves, so I followed the... _taste_ of thy spirit.”

“Thank you,” Legolas said, simply.

“But thou dost not trust me yet.”

“I do not know you.” He hesitated. “Or anything about you; why a _Peredhel_ would live with men, or...”

“There is no other choice open to me.” Vanimórë lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “And I am long accustomed.” He turned from the fire. “Know that I will not hurt thee. I will not force thee, either. I have said it.”

“I should not have...” Legolas shook his head. “I was a coward. I...should have – ”

“Do not think that. Do not _ever_ think that.”

Surprised by the vehemence in the man's words, Legolas stared at him mutely.

“Thou art not in the wrong here; the blame lies with Glorfindel and with thy father. Bloody hells, what did they think they were doing, the pair of them?” He paced to the window and Legolas watched the arrogant warrior's carriage (so like Glorfindel's) the tight curve of his rear, the long legs. He felt a flash of envy for the effortless assurance, the absolute knowledge of one's own strength. It made him feel more ineffectual than ever, but had he not always felt like the runt of the litter, the son Thranduil had sent away out of shame? A shame well-founded.

“ _No._ ” Vanimórë swung to face him with a toss of that great tail of black hair. His eyes were blazing, terrifying in their anger. “I can see thy thoughts. I saw something of thy dreams, but because I know what it is like to have some-one come uninvited into my own mind, it is not a thing I do lightly. I prefer people to give me truth from their own lips. And thou hast, young prince, or the truth as thou seest it.” He crossed to the bed in three strides, and went down on one knee as Legolas drew back in alarm. But the hand that touched his face was gentle; gentle as only a man capable of great strength can be. “Thou hast no idea of how tempting thou art. So innocent, so beautiful, and to one whom has lived long and known great grief, it is like a desert spring to a thirsty traveler.” He shook his head faintly.  
“Glorfindel is not only an Eldalie warrior, though that would be enough.He is reborn. I have seen him in battle, felt his power. Thou couldst not have fought him off; there are moves, tricks, but thou hast never learned any, hast thou? And even then, Glorfindel would know how to counter them. He did only one thing: He must have known that if he gave thee no pleasure, it would be base rape, and thou wouldst have died. And still, it is _inexcusable !_ It is what I would expect of a savage, not the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. What has happened to him?”

Legolas could not answer. Vanimórë's fury was for _him,_ and he had never known any-one willing to take his part, never thought himself worthy of being championed. Lips rested on the crown of his head for a moment.

“Where did you know Glorfindel?” he asked shyly.

“During the War of the Last Alliance.”

That made sense, of course. So many Elves and Men had fought in the Last Alliance.

“He was not so cruel then.”

“Then why?” Legolas could not forbear crying, remembering the directed hate he had felt from Glorfindel, not knowing how he had earned it.

“War darkens the heart. He wanted thee, but hated what thou didst represent: his enemies. Why does any-one do these things? There is a black chasm in all of us I think, and out of it spews hate and fear, and all its attendants. I have seen many wars, Legolas, many atrocities, but the convenient blanket of _acts of war._ does not excuse anything. Oftentimes it just gives men the opportunity to behave like monsters and feel themselves guiltless. I have known men who love their wives and children enter a fallen city and rape women , swing babes against the wall and dash out their brains.”  
Vanimórë sat on the bed and drew Legolas against him. There was no threat in his touch, no force, but his arms were iron bars. That strength had been in Glorfindel too, and it had aroused and entranced Legolas, until it was used against him. And _such_ strength. He closed his eyes and let himself be held. After the dreamlike grief and sickness of the journey, the terror that lead to his flight, he wanted – desperately needed – to believe he was safe, that this man with his aura of power and command would look after him. If only Glorfindel had been thus. Although he had tried to control his memories, he could never erase the image of the Elf-lord stepping from the forest pool; a magnificent golden god formed, it had seemed, out of Legolas' only half-understood dreams. But his dreams had never prepared him for anything like Glorfindel. Or for what had happened after.

  
~~~

  
 _What dost thou want?_ Glorfindel fell naturally into the antique mode of speech as he hurled the challenge out toward the east, to that powerful, familiar and furious mind.

_What do I want? To flay the skin from thy back if thou wert within my reach!_

Glorfindel closed the door of his chambers behind him, and began to unbuckle his training gear. In all the years that had passed since the strange thrall of Sauron had ridden away from the bleak victory of the Alliance, Glorfindel had never tried to speak to him mind-to-mind. He had not considered it possible; it was something only the Aman-born Eldar or the Ainur could essay, as far as he knew. Yet there had been an undeniable power in the thrall, and now his voice was clear as the chime of a bell, his emotions thunderous.

Glorfindel's rose head-on to meet them.  
 _Why?_ he demanded.

_Since when didst thou become an orc, Lord Glorfindel?_

_What art thou talking about?_  
A superfluous question. He did not know _how_ Vanimórë had discovered what had happened in the Greenwood, but the scathing accusation in his voice could have been roused by nothing else. This was impossible, he thought. The whole situation felt as if it were wrenching out of his control since his meeting with Celeirdúr.

 _The young prince of Eryn Lasgalen. Thou didst not even care what became of him, didst thou? I will ask thee a question thou didst once ask me, Golden One: What art_ thou?

Glorfindel flung his sword-belt across the room. _Thou wouldst dare to question me? How didst thou learn of this? And what business is it of thine,_ thrall?

_What business is it of mine? Let me think. Ah yes. Legolas is with me, safe. And pregnant with thy seed._

To hear what Elrond had suggested – and to feel in his soul that it was true – confirmed so flatly, brought a hot surge of blood into Glorfindel's face. For a moment, the room vanished before his eyes, drowned by memory and a breaking storm of emotions that he could not name.

 _He was banished from his home,_ Vanimórë said relentlessly. _He had nowhere to go, and was taken in by some tribesmen traveling east after a summer of trading. It is a wonder he is not dead. The women cared for him, but thou hast given him a wound his soul may never recover from._

Glorfindel pressed the heel of his hands over his eyes, cursing.  
 _How didst thou find him?_

 _I felt him. He was praying, almost mad with fear. An Elf here is as unlikely as midsummer snow in the Mirror of Fire. We talked, Glorfindel, in those years when the Alliance besieged Barad-dûr, of things Sauron would not deem important. But it was of great import to thee to father children, was it not?_ A dour bite of satisfaction entered Vanimórë's voice. _Strong sons, fine daughters. Yet, I will give thee this much credit: thou wouldst not take a woman to wife and cheat her of her dues. And so there would be no child of the House of the Golden Flower.  
But there will be. The Valar must be laughing at thee._

Glorfindel deliberately willed himself into stillness. He thought that his body would explode into fragments if he did not hold it fast. He had not wanted to believe it. It was easier, even after speaking to Elrond, to convince himself that there might have been a Man, or another Silvan Elf who had taken Legolas, than to face the fact that what he had desired so deeply and considered beyond his reach, had been given to him – and then snatched away.

 _I know thee,_ Vanimórë said. _I know thee_ intimately. _I know what bedchamber games aroused thee ! I understand them myself. But thou didst cross a line with Legolas Thranduilion. And did not need to. Thou couldst have made him adore thee, instead thou didst take his innocence and trust, and made him feel pleasure, because it suited thine ego to have a beautiful helpless virgin crying out for thee!_

Glorfindel drove a fist into the wall, the pain allowing him to hold his rage in check. He wrestled with himself, tuned his voice to iron before he damaged something further. If any-one came into his room at that moment he thought he might kill them.  
 _There are things thou dost not know, Vanimórë, things that Legolas did not even know._

 _Do tell,_ Vanimórë goaded.

_Legolas had a brother who was raped by orcs, long ago. It was killing him. Thranduil killed him to spare him the agony._

In the bedchamber in Szrel Kain, Vanimórë straightened. He gently removed his arms from about Legolas, who gazed at him in bewilderment, and he smiled reassurance even while his eyes looked otherwhere, as his inner sight drew Glorfindel out of memory, investing him with all that glorious golden beauty, hating him for his acts.

_That explains much. Go on._

_Thranduil's eldest son came nigh to Imladris searching for his brother. It was a foolish thing to do, for we know the lands about this valley as we know our own hands. He did not even know why he came, but he must have felt something lay between Legolas and Imladris._

Vanimórë waited. He might have been a Haradhan lion, his teeth at another's throat. Another lion's. A king of the pride, as he was.

 _Legolas was sent away from the king's halls because Thranduil could not look on him without seeing the other son, and his wife, who, when she saw that Legolas was the image of the dead, and bore the same gift – which they call a curse – fled and fell to her death, or took her own life in despair._ Glorfindel fell silent for a moment, then continued. _I entered the forest to discover what had happened to some warriors who had been taken prisoner. The Silvans abused them. Badly. I could do nothing without giving myself away. Thou art a warrior thyself and know how it is on such missions, though I loathed myself for not intervening. But I lead the armies of Imladris and must think of the safety of the whole valley, and read the tide-shifts of this bitter war. When I saw Legolas, I did not know whom he was, I only knew he was beautiful, and I wanted him. Yes I was in a black rage. I gave him pleasure unwilling, then and later._

“That is no excuse, Glorfindel.” Vanimórë spoke aloud, and there was a thrumming resonance to his words like the echoes of a plucked harp, washing against the wall to whisper back into the chamber. _Glorfindel, Glorfindel, Glorfindel..._ Legolas raised himself to his knees, his lips parting.

_I need not explain myself to thee, thrall!_

“Legolas deserves an explanation. After all,” Vanimórë said sardonically, “He is carrying thy child.”  
 _Yes, go and think about it. I do know how important it is for the parents of an Elf-child to nurture it in the womb. Well, I assure thee, Glorfindel, this babe will not suffer any lack._

He felt the sun-storm of wrath with relish and said, his tone stripped of everything but contempt: _If thou hadst troubled thyself to look at Legolas, into his eyes, even for one heartbeat, thou wouldst have seen a tender soul who would have responded to love as a flower to the sun. Is thy reborn sight unequal to that, or was it rather that thou didst not trouble thyself with his feelings? He was just a beautiful body, after all, was he not?_ And now passion burned on a mind-shout like a thrown hammer. He rose and strode the room. _So Thranduil could not bear to look upon Legolas. My heart bleeds, truly. When there is no choice but to endure,_ one endures! _In the Harad and Rhun, the poor sell their children into slavery, for there is nothing else they can do; children are taken to be sacrificed to the Dark, and the women cry and the men curse to no avail. And Thranduil put his youngest son out of sight because the sight_ hurt him? _I understand agony of the soul, and so dost thou, but by the Hells, I would tear out my own heart before rejecting my child!_

A silence fell like the silence after battle, filled with unnameable pain. Legolas knelt on the bed, silent, seemingly petrified into immobility by the aetheric storm. He looked, in his stillness, like an exquisite statue of gold and alabaster brought from some distant, legendary land.

 _He enjoyed what I gave him, he was ripe and ready for love._ But in Imladris, Glorfindel stood with his arms driven down, hands curled into fists. He had thought it incredible Legolas was untouched, but he now knew precisely why he was. The young prince did not know he was out of bounds; every other one of Thranduil's subjects did.

_Go on, congratulate thyself on thine expertise in the arts of the bedchamber, Golden One. There is nothing quite like violently deflowering a virgin, I imagine. Shall I tell thee what he said?_

_Well, what did he say?_ Glorfindel hissed.

 _Let me quote exactly,_ Vanimórë whip-lashed back, and then, with perfect mimicry, his mind-voice took on the intonations of Legolas' soft, sweet tones: _'He was...so beautiful! I thought he liked me.'_

~~~

A diversion. Something to make his dangerous mission less dark. And he _had_ believed that the delicious youth had not given him away because he wanted more, having once been broken-in. Glorfindel had been prepared for an alarum to sound, and none had come. Even after hearing Celeirdúr tell of Thranduil sending his youngest son out of sight, of his vow that Legolas would never know what he was, still Glorfindel did not truly understand why the prince had not alerted the guards. He need not have told them anything of the encounter, after all.  
Pouring wine, he stared into the red liquid and brought Legolas' face out of his mind to shimmer on its surface; piquant, delicate, long lashes spiked with tears, the vulnerable red mouth. He had put the encounters aside, knowing he would not meet the youth again, but he had never, in two lifetimes of varied lovers, seen any-one he had so instantly and ravenously desired.

 _Why did he not expose me?_ he demanded, as the wine settled in his knotted stomach.

_I wager thou wert a pampered, beloved son. Legolas is not._

_Was he so afraid of Thranduil?_ Something stirred within Glorfindel, an incongruity of personal ire against the Elven-king when he had done far worse.

_He was crippled by the thought of his weakness, allowing thee to take him. He had never been close enough to his father to trust him._

Glorfindel wanted to reach across the miles and backhand Vanimórë across his hard, beautiful face. He could almost see the disdain in those violet eyes, in the curl of his lips. How dare a thrall of Sauron, who had served the Dark all his life, condemn Glorfindel? Why did he feel as if he stood before a pitiless, contemptuous judge? Why had he even told Vanimórë what he had learned? He had done what he had done and felt no regret after.

 _What wilt thou do with him?_ The thin silver of the cup began to dent under the pressure of his hand.

 _I know what I should do,_ came the answer on a thread of grimness. _I rule a city in the south. I should take Legolas there, treat him as a prince in truth, make him realize his own worth, train him as I train my warriors, and raise his son as my own._

The winecup hit the floor.  
 _How dost thou know it is a son?_ Glorfindel blazed.

 _I know. And then, when he is grown and deadly in battle – and if I train him, he will be! – I should send him to his true father, who got him in rape. Do not let us split hairs here, thou didst force Legolas. I would tell_ thy son _everything. I wonder what he would do when he found thee?_

 _ **No.**_ There was white-gold flame in the room, burning Glorfindel's sight. It was around him and within him. _No !_

_I was cursed never to sire children, and I too, have long wanted them._

_The child is_ mine!  
The balcony doors slammed open as if the force in the room were too great to be contained. Glorfindel took no notice.

 _I care nothing for that._ Vanimórë's reply was utterly indifferent.

_My son belongs with me!_

_No doubt thou wilt see him. One day._

_Thou hast no right to keep him from me, damn thee! I curse thee to the Void for this !_

_That has already been done. Thou doth not deserve a son. And is that all thou canst think of? What of the one who carries him?_

Glorfindel drew in a breath. _If thou wilt escort him to somewhere where I may meet him, I will take him to Imladris and treat him with the respect due to a prince of the House of Oropher and the one who bears my child._

_Thy brood mare, in fact? I think not. I can offer him more. I merely wanted to tell thee – because I hoped there was some compunction in thee for thine act – that Legolas is safe and swelling with a son._

_Bastard!_ Through the fury, Glorfindel saw Elrond appear on the balcony and cried, “ _Leave me !_ ”

Elrond could not have looked more appalled had Glorfindel physically struck him in the face. He swayed back, his face gone blank, then turned, throwing a glance over his shoulder as he walked away.

 _Thou wouldst judge_ me, _slave of Sauron? Thinkst thou I would leave my son, and he who carries him, with_ thee?  
His fingers had unraveled his braided hair, and he thrust his hands into the mass of it, breathing hard as a warrior after a battle.  
 _Did he teach thee sorcery, thrall? Thou shouldst not be able to communicate with me thus, not from so far away unless thou art Aman-born._

 _Thou couldst never see whom I was, couldst thou?_ The question was sinuous with black mockery. _Didst thou never wonder why?_

_Sauron was in thy mind like dark fire, barring all else._

_Oh, thou wouldst still see that in me, Golden One._ Then Vanimórë abruptly ended the game like an executioner bringing down the death blow. _I am not Aman-born. I was born in Tol-in-Gaurhoth. My mother was kept alive and insane while her womb nurtured me and my twin. To my father I was simply a slave to use in whatever way suited him._

Glorfindel felt anguish as deep as a crack in the world in Vanimórë's soul.

 _I know how Legolas feels better than thou canst imagine. Thou didst name me Vanimórë. That is my name in truth. Thou hast penetrating sight. Or did. Vanimórë Gorthaurion. The son of Sauron holds and will protect Legolas Thranduilion, and_ thy son. _Is that not wonderfully ironic, Glorfindel?_

  
~~~

  
He looked down at Legolas, who had not moved and took both his hands.

“You spoke to Glorfindel? He could hear thee?” The prince's voice shook.

“Yes. For some reason, he was not overjoyed.” He raised Legolas and kissed him, brief and warm. “He wants his child, of course.”

“No, I...No. Please.”

“He does not deserve either of thee, and he certainly does not command me,” Vanimórë said. “Yet, there is a binding is there not?”

Legolas' mouth trembled in distress, he shook his head so that his hair drifted like windblown silk.

“Sweet prince. Peace. Do not be ashamed. Do not worry about anything. Let Glorfindel do the worrying. He is only now beginning to face what he has done.” ~

  
~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Nahma. - Housekeeper


	4. ~ Through Tears and Firelit Dreams ~

  
~ A previous occupant of the house had built a private passage from his apartments to the bathhouse, and it was along this that Vanimórë took Legolas later. Before, in the room, he had taken a length of string, with knots set at regular intervals and with it had measured Legolas' legs, feet and shoulders.

“I will have this taken to a tailor and cordwainer,” he had said. “Thou wilt need clothes, now and after the birth.”

Legolas was aching to ask what had passed between Vanimórë and Glorfindel, for although a faint smile bent Vanimórë's mouth, there was a flaming rage slammed behind the purple eyes. It alarmed him so that he could find no words and allowed himself to be lead down the corridor and a flight of shallow steps.

The room they entered was heavy with moisture and Legolas stared at the square pool sunk into the tiled floor, fragrant steam rising from it. Stone shelves about the wall held linen and soap, phials of oil and a long table covered with towels. Through a line of pillars, Legolas could see a larger pool, drained and empty.

“The larger baths for the household.” Vanimórë unbuckled his belt and laying it and the thigh-sheath on a shelf. “This one is private, for the owner of this house. The water runs through pipes and is heated. Come, undress. I daresay thou wilt be glad of a bath.”

“With you?” Legolas stammered.

“I have told the attendants we will not need them.” As he spoke, Vanimórë pulled off his boots, breeches and tunic, folding them into a neat pile. His hands unwound the swathe of hair that drew it back from his face and he ran his fingers through the loosened mane. Legolas looked and looked away, feeling like a dewdrop on a leaf that swells with it's own weight of water until it falls, because looking at Vanimórë in his glorious nakedness was too similar to his memories of Glorfindel. His vision blurred and he did not protest as the deft hands removed his own travel-worn garments and drew him down into the hot water then sat him on a bench that ran the inner length of the bath. The water lapped over the curve of his belly. He remained passive and mute as his hair was soaped and rinsed and twisted up on his head, as he felt his body gently cleansed from head to toe. When a towel was lain in his hands, he wiped his eyes and watched as Vanimórë washed himself, then sat beside him.

“Now,” he said. “I will tell thee of my conversation with Glorfindel.” And Legolas saw some of the rage seep from that hard face, leaving compassion in its wake.

“Thine eldest brother went to Imladris looking for thee.”

“Celeirdúr?” Legolas asked in bewilderment. “Why?”

“Because he cared.”

“Did he?”

“Yes.” The violet eyes were opaque, but Vanimórë's voice was not.

“Was he hurt?”

“I do not believe so,” Vanimórë said. “What would Thranduil do if he were captured?”

“Anything,” Legolas paused and then, “Oh. He will sue for peace.”

“That would be a good thing.”

“Yes of course. Celeirdúr was kind to me. When he had the time.”

“He told Glorfindel a thing,” Vanimórë murmured. “But in the end nothing – _nothing_ excuses thy father or Glorfindel.”

Legolas felt his throat dry.  
“What was it?”

Vanimórë rose and took his hand. Once out of the pool he shook out a towel and dried Legolas, then handed him a long houserobe that trailed on the tiles but was warm and soft.  
“Sit down.”

Legolas obeyed, watching rivulets of water paint silvery lines over the man's shoulders and hard stomach. His hips were hidden under linen for which the prince had to be grateful, for Vanimórë's intense virility made him feel frail and breathless, but as he listened he grew ice-cold and sick. Warm fingers closed over his hands and he heard, through the horror, that rich voice say.  
“Come.”

The bedchamber was warm, but Vanimórë set more cordwood on the fire and settled Legolas on the bed. He took the pearl-white face and raised it to his.

“There begins Thranduil's hate and fear,” he said. “As for Glorfindel, he came into the forest after some of his warriors had been captured and ill-treated by thine own people.” He felt Legolas skin warm with the stain of shame. “Strange,” he mused. “I used to want to believe the Elves were above treating one another as Men did. But there is no hate more bitter than that among kin, and I never want thee to believe it was anything _thou_ didst.” He placed a finger over the parting mouth. “ _No._ Glorfindel is a warrior. He should be able to control himself better than that. War, anger, does things to men, but that does not make it acceptable . In his anger, he saw something he wanted and took it by force. I never want thee to apologize to him for provoking what he did.”

“But I will not see him!” Legolas protested, his stomach dropping away.

“We will see. I said I would take thee away to the south, give thee all thou hast not has, raise thy child as mine.” Vanimórë smiled at the fury he could still feel in Glorfindel. “He was beyond rage, Legolas. He said, and I quote him, _If thou wilt escort him to somewhere where I may meet him, I will take him to Imladris and treat him with the respect due to a prince of the House of Oropher and the one who bears my child._ ”  
He watched as Legolas' face opened to something that was so deep, so lost and longing, that he knew he glimpsed the child he had been, afraid and bewildered by his treatment, not understanding what he had done to deserve it.

“Legolas, I am not thy gaoler,” he said. “And no, I will not take thee to the Harad unless there is no other choice. It is not the place for thee. But neither will I give thee into the hands of some-one who would use thee for thy uniqueness in being able to bear children. Glorfindel will have to earn thee. And love thee.”

He drew the damp golden head against his breast and held Legolas as the tears purged him. Looking into the shadows of the darkening room, his eyes held a depth that only his sister, so long dead, would have recognized.

~~~

“I need a discreet midwife, Ekesha.” Vanimórë leaned back in the chair and propped one booted foot on the polished table. “And I do mean discreet.”

Most older women in any city had some experience of bringing a child into the world, and they could be skilled and clean or dirty and drunken. The poor had little choice. He wanted some-one who would not speak of what they would see, and he knew that might be impossible. He had considered that if there were complications, the child might need to be cut from Legolas' womb, but such operations were the province of male physicians, and the better ones had become wealthy by treating the rich. Thus, inevitably, they dabbled in politics and were in a position to pass on much interesting information. The birth of a child by a male would be extremely interesting to many people. He could buy their silence for a while, he knew, but the only way to ensure it stayed bought was to kill the man after, which he was considering. A midwife would be safer; a midwife who secretly worshiped the Mother would be safest, if he could find one. The Cult of Dana was a hidden thing in these cities about the Sea of Rhun, but it did exist and was extremely hard for any man to penetrate. Ekesha was not a follower, or he could feel no evidence of it in her thoughts, but she was a useful and level-headed and doubtless knew many people. All large households produced children. Servants and even slaves could marry if their owner permitted it, it was simply more free labor after all.

“If thou shouldst find such a woman, bring her to me and I will agree on her fee.”

“Yes, lord.” A close woman this. Vanimórë was a legend out of the south to her, something sorcerous; a man to fear.

“There are certain things I will entrust thee with, certain things thou shalt come to know while I am here. Thou may ask any questions. I may even answer them.” He smiled, deliberately disarming, and she bowed and left the room.

That evening he dined with his men, telling Legolas to bar the outer door of the chambers while he was gone.

“What will you do, Sire?” Tanout asked him, when only his officers remained, sitting over their last watered wine. The young man, who had entered his service as a street brat at ten years old, was permitted this familiarity and some few others. He had flung himself out almost under the hooves of Vanimórë's horse one festival day in Sud Sicanna declaring his intention to become one of the prince's elite corps of warriors. Vanimórë had looked down on him, smiled behind his black helm and said, “Very well, so thou shalt, Tanout.”

Vanimórë's life had not bred trust, but that did not mean he did not share his thoughts with others. He had the reputation in Sud Sicanna for being invulnerable to poison or secret blade. It was not true of course. He could be slain, but it would take some-one superior to him to dispatch him to the Void and Morgoth. His soldiers came to know, generation after generation, that if their Dark Prince spoke to them openly, it was he did not consider the repercussions of honesty to be important. Assassins and ambitious lords had learned that lesson in blood.

“My guest is a prince,” he said. “A banished one, but a prince nonetheless. I shall accord him the respect due to one.”

Tanout had seen the youth when Vanimórë had swept him up in his arms and borne him back to the camp. The Haradhrim had old tales of the _Lichtloth,_ * and the prince was alleged to be one. There were similarities in the flawless skin, the alien beauty, but Vanimórë for all his magnificent strangeness was a man. The one he had rescued was a male swelling with child.

“Thou may ask,” the prince said. “All of thee.”

The oldest and most senior of his officers, Annad, with his iron-grey hair and the scar of an old sword-cut across one cheek, spoke.  
“Sire, we know little of the Elder Race save from you. Is there some curse on this one you have saved?”

“No. Quite the opposite. Elves breed as Mortals do. This young Elf Legolas, is a man yes, yet he can conceive and give birth as women do. There is no curse upon him. Thinkst thou that I would not know?”

“No, Sire,” Annad replied. “But it is...unnatural.”

“Unnatural.” The word was disdainful. “I have seen many things which thou wouldst call unnatural. The orcs of Morgoth were bred of Elves and Men, _unnaturally,_ yet they thrive and mate. Legolas is _unusual._ There is a difference.”

“Will you take him back to Sud Sicanna, Sire?” Tanout asked quietly.

“I have considered it. It would be much too far from his home, and there is a thing I learned of the Elves: When a child is conceived, it is nourished both by the mother and the sire. A nourishment of the soul.”  
Tanout, whose mother had died when he was young, looked into his winecup. Vanimórë continued, “Elves love their children, women conceive because they wish to, because the time is right. All children are begotten in love. Or they should be. I am half-Elf,” his voice tilted into mockery. “and although my conception was... _different,_ I believe that the father of this child should be with the young prince. He has not been and will not, but I will try to ensure that Legolas and the babe feel no lack of care. We will remain here until the child is born and Legolas recovered and then I shall decide what to do. Trust me.”  
He smiled and Tanout was warmed and roused right through. It was only two years ago that he had realized that Vanimórë was aware of the power of that smile. He could turn anything into a weapon, and Tanout might have hated him had there not been genuine warmth there. And there was. The prince cared about his soldiers and their families: widows were provided for, permitted to keep their homes, and their pension did not pass into the hands of their male relatives or new husbands if they married again. Sud Sicanna was unique in the Harad, and every man in its army was proud of what they were. They trusted their ruler.

“I will want two guards outside my chamber doors when I am not here and two in the garden below. Annad, I will leave that in thy hands.”

“You suspect danger, Sire?” the man asked. Vanimórë swept one slender hand through the air.  
“No. I am merely being cautious. But no harm will come to the prince while he is under my protection.” It was both a statement and a warning. As the men went to their rooms, Tanout intercepted the unspoken message to remain behind and closed the door. Vanimórë set down his wine cup.  
“We may be away from Sud Sicanna longer than I originally planned,” he murmured. “And we will not remain here. I may go north to Rhovannion.”

“Rhovannion?” Tanout was startled, but spoke equally soft, “Did they not aid Gondor? Would they not see you as an enemy?”

“I will not get involved with any plans to attack Gondor. I do not want Gondor, I trade with them and with Rhovannion. Prince Cadmon will receive me. I will send messengers with proof of my good intent.”

“If I may ask – ”

“It is closer to the prince's homeland.” Vanimórë rose and walked to him. His shoulders cut the lamplight like bars. “I am entrusting Legolas to thee when I cannot be with him. Thou art not afraid of what he is, and thou wilt be an example to the others.”

As always, Tanout wanted to ask, _How do you know. Who are you? What are you?_ But he did not. He bowed.

“You honor me, Sire.”

The violet eyes danced. “I know.” Then, soberly, “He needs friends. he needs to be shown his own worth. He is not a monstrosity or cursed; he is special and very vulnerable. Dost thou understand?”

Tanout understood. He had worked himself into the persona of a brash child-thief with his feet already treading the path to the Wall, the ancient place of execution in the city. But the construction had been fragile as a glass bowl blown over the fear and loneliness of his mother's death when a plague swept Sud Sicanna, brought by merchants from Khand. He understood what it was to be lost and abandoned, and he had seen something in Vanimórë that spoke of protection, of immense strength that would never fail.

“Yes, Sire,” he said. “Command me.”

~~~

“Remember the Elven thrall we captured in Mordor?” Glorfindel swept into Elrond's rooms without knocking, and the lord of Imladris stared at him. There was anger in his eyes. It had no effect upon Glorfindel's fury.

“What is happening?” he demanded coldly.

“He has Legolas. And you were right, damn you, in your speculation. Legolas is carrying my son.”

Elrond took a step toward his high captain and stared.  
“How do you know this?”

“The bastard spoke into my mind !” Glorfindel blazed. “There are few people left in Middle-earth who could reach through the powers that shield this valley. He should not have been one of them. But he did, and easily as my sword would pass through butter ! And do you know why? We never knew whom he was, did we? He did not tell us, and we thought that Sauron enslaved him so closely we could not penetrate that shield.” He held Elrond's eyes, saw them widen as prescience touched him.

“He is Sauron's son.”

“Impossible.” Elrond reacted with instant, flat denial.

“I wish I could think so,” Glorfindel said savagely. “I was with him often. I felt power there, but I believed it to be Sauron's, through him, through his thrall. Of course he cannot escape Sauron with such a blood-bond ! But Sauron was diminished when the One Ring was cut from his hand. Not gone, but unable to rebuild his form and power for a long time. And so, for this time, his son is free.”

“No.” Horror opened in Elrond's voice. “The thrall was an Elf. What woman would bear a child by Sauron?”

“I do not know! Yes, he is half-Elf, half Maia as your ancestress was. The son of Sauron has in his power the one who carries _my_ son!” And he felt the scald of blood under his skin as he vowed, “ _And I will not permit that!_ ”

~~~

Legolas had been running, running through splashes of dappled light, green, gold, green, until he leaped from the trees, the pool glinting before him. And Glorfindel was there, rising from the water, wearing gold as the sun wore fire. His eyes were filled with love, and he opened his arms and smiled. Legolas went to him like a hawk dropping from the skies, and their kiss was wild, deep as the roots of mountains and potent as the red wine his father drank at feasts.  
He groaned into Glorfindel's mouth, then cried out and jerked his head back, tasting blood. The blue eyes that had held the warmth of the Sun still blazed, but now with rage and a darkness that set Legolas struggling in his arms like a trapped fox. Glorfindel laughed in derision at his fruitless attempts to break free.

 _Hush._

 _Please, let me go!_

 _I will not hurt thee. Shhhh._

Legolas sank into darkness like a stone falling to the bottom of the well. He could see nothing, but he felt the mouth soften again, tracing kisses over his face, his throat, the brush of fingertips.

 _Please._ He did not know what he pleaded for, drowning in the sweet, frightening touches that bloomed as bruises bloom, spreading to cover every part of his skin, stiffening his sex to pain. The kisses ached on his budding breasts, were gentle on the curve of his stomach. And then he arched up as they closed over his erection. It was swallowed; he was swallowed, in fire-shot blackness. Tides shifted inside him, flowing down into his loins. Cool hair poured over his hips and he felt it like silk against his flesh. The tide dragged again, pulling his erection deep into moist warmth, a tongue probed and swirled across the slit and fed on him, until all he could hear was his own heart, his gasping cries. He broke in a storm, weeping, shaking, throbbing again and again until he was spent and dewed with perspiration.  
The darkness pulsed with firelight, throwing Vanimórë's face into rosy planes and shadows, possessing the great eyes with reddish light. He was smiling, his fingers combing back Legolas hair, resting lightly, protectively on his belly.

“Oh,” Legolas said, feeling bright color infuse his cheeks, feeling as if he was blushing all over his body. No-one had ever touched him like that, and he quivered in the dregs of unbearable pleasure. “I am sorry, I was dreaming...” There was no strength in his voice; it came on a wavering gulp of air and he turned his head away. A kiss settled on his his brow, and Vanimórë lay down, pulling the covers over them both. A wind rattled at the windows and rain began to tap insistently on the leaded panes.  
“I know. I wanted to make it a better dream.” Legolas heard tenderness in his voice. “Sleep now, sweet prince.” ~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Lichtloth - Northern Haradhan tongue for Elf.


	5. ~ If I Could Heal With A Touch ...' ~

  
“Is that all that passed between you?” Elrond asked.

Glorfindel's hand flattened bloodless against the wall. He did not look around, but said flatly, “No,” then, “I will not tell you all we spoke of. I did not speak to him of Imladris, if that is what concerns you.”

“Yes, it does concern me,” Elrond said tightly. “Who he is _concerns_ me, and what you might have told him when he was our prisoner.”

Glorfindel whirled in a cloud of bright hair and black anger. “I told him nothing. He warned us to tell him nothing !”

“You may have given something away.” Elrond gripped his hands together at Glorfindel's instant, derisory rebuttal. “If we had known who he was – ”

“He was a slave. He loathed Sauron and he suffered.”

“Where is he now? He spoke of taking Legolas to the south?”

“He is not in the south,” Glorfindel stated. “The distance would be too far, save for swift riders, and I doubt Legolas could ride. He spoke of _taking_ him to the south.” He turned back to the window. Vanimórë was not in the Harad, or not at the moment. He had come north for some reason, and had found Legolas...where? And where was he now?

“We should have killed him when we had him.” Elrond's thoughts were clearly following a different track. Glorfindel stared at him in irritation.  
“I would not have permitted it, Elrond, even had I known. And nor would Gil-galad.”

“Would you not?” Elrond snapped.

“What would have been your justification for slaying a bound prisoner?” Glorfindel demanded. He was incensed that he felt forced into defending Vanimórë, to point out the dishonor of murder, because what was the difference between cold-blooded killing and hot-blood rape? Vanimórë had unloosed a volley of scorn upon him, and it had pierced Glorfindel's armor, burrowing deep into his soul.  
“That thrall longed for freedom, but he knew Sauron was not banished forever, and he refused your offer to come to Imladris, for when Sauron returned he would see into his son's mind, know where he was, perhaps even here, under the protection of Vilya. You never knew him as I did,” he ended. “He fought for _us_ in that last battle. He tried to reach Gil-galad.”

“He should not have been permitted to live,” Elrond reiterated obdurately. “He has the potential to be too dangerous. Perhaps he is a part of these attacks upon Gondor. But we can do nothing, and there is nothing _you_ can do.”

“Nothing I can do? I will not allow _my son_ to be raised by the son of Gorthaur the Cruel, nor any man but myself !”

“It is a foul thing to happen, but if Thranduil had told Legolas that he had inherited this gift and _not_ banished him, still you would never have seen your son.”

“If Thranduil had known who fathered the child he might have killed Legolas,” Glorfindel flung at him. “It is better this way. I know Vanimórë.”

“Yet you did not even know who he was. And if you think to ride off Eru knows where to find Legolas and your child, I will remind you that you serve me, and this is _not_ the time to forget what you are !”

Glorfindel simply looked at him for a moment.  
“If I wanted to leave Imladris there is not a man here who could stop me, nor one who would if they knew why I left,” he said at last, voice serpent-soft. “ _And you know it._ ”

“Glorfindel !” Elrond warned, as his captain walked from the room.

~~~

Legolas woke warm and for a moment, peaceful. The rain had ceased and the light that brightened the room was golden with sun, though the fire still burned. He moved, sliding one hand down to his belly and felt the flutter under his flesh as if the child sensed his awakening and moved in recognition. He smiled sleepily, content to lie in the comfort of feather pillows and wool, gathering the dreams from where they drifted in his consciousness – and his lips parted in a soundless exclamation. He looked aside. The other half of the bed was empty and the sheets had given up the body-heat of the man who had lain between them, but the faint, voluptuous scent that clung about him still lingered.

_I was dreaming of Glorfindel, and then..._

He pushed his suddenly burning cheek against a cool edge of the pillow and closed his eyes, his stomach turning over. He fought the sickness, as he was able to now; it no longer brought him up, retching miserably. He swallowed saliva and breathed deeply then lay limp and confused until he heard the outer door open.

Vanimórë entered the bedchamber carrying a tray and Legolas, peeping at him, saw him set it on a side table and turn. His face was unreadable, eyes inward-looking as if he were in deep thought. But when they fell on Legolas, his expression changed. He crossed to the bed, and as Legolas forced himself to sit up, Vanimórë drew him close.

“Do not look at me like that,” he chided, the rich lilt caressing as silk. “Glorfindel stalks thy dreams. I know how how it feels to be haunted in that way. And,” Legolas heard the smile bend the next words. “You are sweet. I enjoyed it.” A laugh shook through hard muscles. He sat back, and smiled, then asked. “Sick?”

“It is easing.”

Vanimórë went to the tray and poured a drink. Legolas smelled ginger and honey.  
“This will help. Drink.”

Legolas forced the tisane down in small sips, then sat back against the pillows. He did not know where to look.

“I am sorry,” he began helplessly.

“I am sorry for thy dreams, but I am not sorry for easing them.”  
Legolas' chin was gently raised and he saw a glitter of mischief in the beautiful eyes. “Thou art lovely. I am almost – almost, but not quite ! – sorry for what Glorfindel is missing.” The smile was conspiratorial. “In fact, I think he should know.”

Legolas jerked violently. “I do not want to think of him, my lord ! And I do not...do not want him to think of me !”

“Vanimórë. And I admire thy spirit but I know it is untrue.” His eyes became distant as he stared over Legolas' head. “Bonds are forged both by cruelty and love, Legolas. And both are equally strong for both touch the soul. Glorfindel also gave thee pleasure. And how not? He knew what he was doing.” He soothed as if he could repress Legolas' surge of shame, as instinctive as bare flesh flinching from a fire. “I will tell thee again and again, prince, that what happened to thee was not thy fault. Perhaps thou wilt never believe me, but I will repeat it nonetheless: Feeling pleasure, even if it is forced on thee, is _not wrong._ ” He rose and brought back a tray. “Eat what you can, and then I will tell thee a little more of why I am here. Later, thou wilt meet Tanout. He is my most capable young officer, an orphan who knew loneliness and fear. I have to be out of this house at times to meet with other leaders and Tanout will guard thee.”

Legolas felt a hand stroke his hair. He could not think of last night, or of Glorfindel without shame. Indeed, he should not think of Glorfindel at all, but how could he not, when the Elf-lord's seed was growing large in his belly? How could have have forgotten anyway?

~~~

Legolas recognized Tanout as the young man he had seen in the tent outside the city. Like Vanimórë he wore simple dark clothing, but his eyelids were outlined with a smudge of dark paint, like charcoal, and also like his lord, tiny studs of gold climbed his ears from lobes to tip.

“Tanout, this is Prince Legolas,” Vanimórë introduced them. “Legolas, Captain Tanout of the Royal Guard of Sud Sicanna. He is charged with thy protection when I am not here.”

Legolas stammered a greeting, but Tanout bowed. His smile was friendly.

“Prince Legolas,” he spoke Westron slowly, with a musical accent. “My lord honors me with this charge. I shall not disappoint him.”

“Yes, I do, and I know thou wilt not.” Vanimórë flashed a smile and a wink. “Sit down.” He himself leaned his shoulders against the wall, resting one foot upon it, saying, “I go to see Dhölkan shortly. Annad and three others will accompany me. I am not expected, but he will receive me, and I do not think the matter will detain me long.” He turned his head to Legolas, who was sitting on a divan with pillows piled against the wall to rest his back. “Knowest thou of the attacks on Gondor?”

“Yes, I was taught a little,” Legolas said hesitantly, wondering if he sounded ignorant. The Greenwood had never been involved in the invasions, but the men of Rhovannion, whom Thranduil had dealings with, lived in a world where there was often turmoil. Swords were kept sharp and ears were pricked to listen to the rumbles of thunder in the east.

“Then you know the king of Gondor defeated the invaders some years ago. This Council was called to bring together chieftains and princes of the east and south and renew the attacks. I have no interest in Gondor; only if it looks south to my city will I be compelled to take action, but it is well for me to know what passes.”

Legolas listened quietly as Vanimórë spoke, keeping his eyes lowered to where his hands were clasped over his belly. He could not look at the man without thinking of the warmth of his mouth, the suck and pull and teasing tongue. And that path lead him straight back to the memory of Glorfindel inside him: his words, his lips, the scent of his body and hair. He shivered and shifted, ashamed that both thoughts should harden him. What was he, that he responded so?  
 _“Tell me, whore, who did you seduce?”_ his father had demanded in rage. It had not been that way, but whatever Vanimórë said, perhaps he _had_ done something to invite it, and through the pain, he had felt pleasure – ecstasy – more than once. He did not think that pleasure was wrong, but when allied to pain, surely it was unless one were crooked.  
But as Vanimórë talked on, Legolas found his tone so matter-of-fact, that he began to steal glances up now and then. All of this was outside his experience. He had believed that the Easterlings and Southrons were evil men who served Sauron, yet the Mhadi had been kind, and here he was in an eastern city, with a man who ruled one in the south. But Vanimórë was half-Elven. How had such a thing come to be? Tanout did not look, either, as he had imagined a southern barbarian.  
Legolas felt as a leaf whirled down the river in the autumn rains. He had been struggling helplessly ever since that sultry spring day when Glorfindel had shattered his world, changing it forever, and he was so tired of battling against fear and shame that he wished he could sleep until he woke and found that all his life had been a dream.  
Then, _I am sorry,_ he thought reproachfully, smoothing a hand over the swell of his stomach. Whatever happened to him, he was incapable of wishing the child away.

“...those who will consider your neutrality a threat, Sire,” Tanout was saying.

“That would be a pity,” Vanimórë replied, very dry. “But if they think about it, I am sure they will find they do not want me as part of their alliance. They fight, as all men do, for land and riches and some for the glory of war. They are not quite sure what – or whom – _I_ fight for.” He clapped a hand on Tanout's back. “And now, I must prepare.”

Legolas watched as the young warrior acted as an esquire. He combed out Vanimórë's hair, braided it down his back, then accoutered him in black armor. The mail was slipped on over a vest and breeches of linen, and when the plumed helm was settled on his head, Legolas felt as if he had been punched in the gut. He instinctively pressed back into the pillows. The purple eyes took on a strange light through the eye-slots, and with his face hidden by metal from brow to mouth, Vanimórë looked some dark battle-God, such as might have fought in the wars of the Shaping of Arda.  
Then he smiled.

“It is very effective, I know.” He did not wear a cloak, Legolas noted, choosing to bear a sword harness that rode on his back rather than at his waist. Reaching back, he drew the blades; they were slender and slightly curved, the steel polished to a bright sheen. He examined them, nodded, then returned them to their sheaths in one smooth movement, and slid off the helm. Now he a man again, still alarming, but his hard-sculpted face was bright with sympathy.

“It is not always what thou art, Legolas,” he said. “It is how others perceive thee. We will speak of it later.” He resettled the helm, took Legolas' hands in his own and pressed them, then strode from the room.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence, which Tanout broke at last, saying, “My prince has said you must eat. If you tell me what you would like, I will order it from the kitchens.”

“Thank you. But I am not hungry yet.”

“He insisted.”  
Legolas heard the smile in the man's voice and looked up. There was curiosity in the dark eyes, but no ridicule, no disgust. “He has a way of doing that,” Tanout confided, his mouth still curled. “And he said you are too thin. Which is true, I think. Although,” his apparent confidence faltered. “I know very little of your kind.”

“I had never spoken to any Men either,” Legolas said. “Until the travelers took me in. And I was ill...” He looked toward the windows and rose, walking across to them. Even in this teeming city, he could feel that spring was coming. There was a garden below, straight paths of stone crossing greensward, and trees and flower-beds that seemed to be planned. It was attractive, but Legolas had never seen nature regimented in this way. As he leaned forward, he saw a man standing motionless below the window. He drew back.

“He is a guard,” Tanout said quietly, and pointed down the length of the garden to the end wall. “Two of them, you see? The prince ordered it. There are always to be two outside this door also, when he is not here.”

Legolas looked at him. “Where would I go?”

“As a precaution; you were going to be sold.”

“Sacrificed.” Legolas' stomach turned into ice, and he moved away from the window. Tanout lowered his voice still further.

“He will never let that happen.”

“What if people came, demanded that he give me up?” Flashing a look upward, Legolas saw the young man's face had grown hard.

“Then they would have to get through the prince and all his warriors to claim you. And we are the best soldiers in all the Harad and the East, too.” He said it without arrogance, stating a fact. “We of Sud Sicanna do not worship the Dark Gods. We have not since the prince came to us, over five hundred years ago. There is no human sacrifice in our city.”

“I believed...all those people followed the Dark Lord.” Legolas reached his hands to the fire, and Tanout set another log on the flames. He thought for a moment. His prince had been very specific in what he wanted Legolas to know. Legend said that Vanimórë was a captain, or more, of Lord Sauron himself, an Elf taken in forgotten years and bound by sorcery. Vanimórë never spoke about his life before he had come to Sud Sicanna, (which tale was in itself legend) but if he ever mentioned the Dark Lord it was with a familiarity that strengthened the rumors.

“I do not want thee to call me the Eyes of Sauron,” he had said. “Sauron and the Elves have been enemies for thousands of years and Legolas is in no fit state to be so alarmed. I will tell him, if the occasion arises.”

“Many do,” Tanout said now. “Sud Sicanna is different. The Mother of the Earth once dwelt there, the prince says, when the world was young and gods and goddesses walked upon it. There is a holy place in the desert, and the temple of the Dark God is now sanctified in Her name. The priestesses are women. Some men are called there to worship, but they do not speak of what they see.” As he could not. He had been seventeen when Vanimórë had lead him to the temple by night. A veiled woman had taken Tanout inside – and what happened after was bound by an oath of secrecy he had sworn on the Mother's name.  
“Dana would not countenance the murder of innocents, and neither would the prince. You are under his protection and his laws, no-one elses'. No-one has a right to demand you. You can trust him.”

“I want to...but I do not know him.”

“Nor did I.” Tanout regarded the averted face, grainless white skin taut over delicate features. This Elf seemed far more ethereal and alien than Vanimórë, perhaps because of his pregnancy, or his youth. There was an innate toughness to the Dark Prince that Legolas might never acquire. And perhaps he should not.  
“I never knew my father,” Tanout continued, mindful of the instructions to _Talk to Legolas as you would to me._ “And when I was five, a plague came to Sud Sicanna and my mother died. I learned to thieve for food, and became as quick as any lizard in slipping away before I was caught. Children are not executed in our city, but I would have been beaten, perhaps killed. There are laws, but it is a great city and there are always those who break them. I used to climb onto the rooftops and watch the prince ride through the streets with his guard, and one day I got close enough to see him. I wanted to serve him. I cannot say why. The tales of him were mysterious, and he had been alive hundreds of years. I threw myself in front of his horse.” He smiled wryly at the memory. “His stallion looked as big as a _Mumak_ to me. He might have ordered his guards to drag me away, or ridden over me, ignored me at the least. But he took me to the palace, and I began my training. I trusted him and have never regretted it.”

The Elf's eyes had slowly risen to his face as he spoke. They were the color of Vanimórë's pools in the palace gardens; tiled with blue stone and filled by water from the deep aquifers under the city, they shimmered under the hot sky like cool mirages.

“Did he train you?”

“He trains all his soldiers from youth,” Tanout nodded. “He is a hard teacher, but not cruel.”

“My brothers are warriors,” Legolas offered shyly. “But I am not, of course. I...would like to learn to protect myself.”

“The prince would teach you. After you are...recovered.”

“You think me an abomination?”

The question startled Tanout into silence. He felt color in his cheeks, but under it, a deep sympathy blossomed. The Elf looked worn to transparency with fear and confusion. He was not a monstrosity, but a human being who could feel the same emotions as any Man.

“I am amazed,” he said honestly. “And confused. Of course I do not understand it, for the prince says that Elves breed as Men do. But no, I do not think that about you.”

Legolas bent his head. “Thank you,” he said.

~~~

“No, but I assure thee Sauron will know of all that happened in his absence,” Vanimórë said through a smile. “I served the Dark since before the seas gorged themselves on Númenor and the war of the Gods that broke the ancient west. Sauron will return. Indeed he never left, his spirit fled only to gather strength to rebuild his physical form. I am not here to join the alliance against Gondor because, shall we say, I have no... _instructions_ to do so. But anything that may affect the Harad is important to me.”

The old man sat back on his divan and tried to appear insouciant. He was almost seventy years old, his wits were still sharp as an assassin's dagger, and his experience with men was vast. He had held Szrel Kain for thirty-eight years with wits, ruthlessness and a natural aptitude for politics that age only honed. He could read people like a painted scroll.  
Not this one.

Dhölkan believed that the gods existed, but considered they had little to do with human affairs. And that was how it should be. Sauron, yes, he had been real enough, he was legend, but no mere myth. Dhölkan knew of men who had tried to enter Mordor in search of ancient treasure or lost magics, and had either never come back, or were found wandering in madness by one of the tribes dwelling north of the Ashen Mountains. Whatever lay in the desolate Black Land was not for men to meddle with. Priests made sacrifice to Sauron, but Dhölkan had no time for priests, most of whom seemed more interested in wealth and nubile slaves than in the one they professed to worship. And those who truly did believe were fanatical troublemakers, whom he ensured met with timely accidents. He did not care if the priests of Szrel Kain dressed in silks and owned catamites, but when they stood in the streets ranting, threatening and drawing crowds, it was not good for the city's reputation. But the Dark Prince was no wild-eyed priest.

“I understand, Lord Vanimórë,” he said peaceably, feeling his spine prickle. “But Gondor has a fine army, and they are ambitious. They may look south themselves in time.”

“I have no doubt they will,” Vanimórë agreed. “And so do I have a strong army, but I will save it for a time when it is needed, or until I have other orders.” He raised a hand. “But what I will do is remain here until the summer and then I intend to pay a visit to the Prince of Rhovannion.”

“May I ask why?” Dhölkan asked.

“Some things I am not at liberty to discuss. It is a personal matter, and has nought to do with this council.”

Dhölkan considered him. He must tread carefully here, because the ground was uncertain under his feet. The Eyes of Sauron, they said. Was it possible that Vanimórë knew where the Dark Lord was? Was he truly in some kind of arcane communication with him? The man sought for cautious words and opened his mouth. As he did so, Vanimórë's head turned, and the purple eyes shone blood-red in the firelight. Speech sifted into dust on Dhölkan's tongue.

“Yes,” the Dark Prince said gently, answering all the unasked questions. He rose, reached for his helm.

~~~

When he had gone, Dhölkan dismissed the guards and summoned one who had been waiting in the specially constructed hollow behind the walls. Osulf had come into his service from somewhere in the barbaric north, young but already lethal with knife and garrote. His eyes were flint-colored and emotionless, contrasting strangely with his full-lipped mouth. If he had any vices, Dhölkan had never discovered them.

“I want to know where he goes, who he talks to. When he goes to Rhovannion, follow him.”

Osulf stared at the door through which the prince had left. “I have heard that many assassins have tried to kill him over the years.”

“Perhaps none were as skilled as you,” Dhölkan murmured.

“Perhaps not,” Osulf agreed. “But I do not think you want him killed. And maybe he cannot be.”

“Are you afraid to try?”

“I am afraid of no Man,” Osulf said calmly. “But he is no Man.”

Striding down the passage, his soldiers falling in behind him, Vanimórë smiled.

~~~

Vanimórë heard the low voices through the door before one of the guards stationed outside opened it. Legolas and Tanout were sitting before the fire, on which reposed the remains of a noonday meal of thick broth and bread, both dishes clean and only crumbs remaining from the bread. Good, he thought, and it also pleased him that the two were talking. Tanout rose at once and helped him remove his armor.

“My thanks, Tanout. I will call my officers later, after supper,” Vanimórë said with the smile that won him willing service. Then he made the subtle gesture of thumb and forefinger tips pressed together to form an eye shape, which meant, _Be vigilant. Spies._

Tanout said nothing, but saluted and went to the door. He would pass that on to the men, as his prince intended and they would learn of the matter later.

When Vanimórë was dressed in his usual black attire, he came back into the room, went to the window, stared out for a moment, then came to stand before Legolas, who looked up.

“Thou art tired now.”

“Yes,” Legolas admitted. “I am always tired.”

“It will pass after the birth.” He took Legolas hand and lead him through to the bedchamber.

“My lord...Vanimórë?”

“Yes?”

“If I die, will you look after the child?”

“Thou wilt not die, young one.” Vanimórë took the fair head between his hands and held it gently. “No birth is easy, ask any woman, but thou wilt not die. This is meant to happen to those with this gift, not death, but _life._ Life for the both of thee.” He kissed Legolas brow and sat him down, removing his robe and soft slippers, then drew up the covers, pausing to drop another kiss on the swelling belly. Legolas eyes were heavy with unshed tears.

“I said before I left, that it is not always how thou art, but how others perceive thee. People take thee at thine own evaluation, and thou doth place no value on thyself.”

“I have no value,” Legolas said, and the tone of his sweet voice sent rage flooding through Vanimórë's veins; not at the prince but at those whom had made him believe his unworthiness.

“Nor do I.”  
He watched the shock strike Legolas' face.

“But...you are a prince, a warrior, like...Glorfindel !”

“I am called a prince, and I trained as a warrior, but once I was not: My mother was dead, my father...uncaring. I was younger than thou art now when I was raped. For the first time.” His hand closed over Legolas' which gripped the sheet. “I was injured. I healed. Rather, my body healed. I was called a whore, and believed myself to be one. That was long ago, in the First Age. And I still think that. I was powerless, as thou wert. No-one could help me. What thou seest is a facade I have constructed over thousands of years. Beneath it, I am nothing, no-one.”  
 _And no-one can help me,_ he thought, _When Sauron returns. I will become what I truly am: Slave. Warrior. Whore._

Legolas pushed himself up. His eyes searched Vanimórë's face.  
“You are not nothing !” he exclaimed and his free hand reached out impulsively to touch Vanimórë's cheek then flew back as if frightened at his temerity. “You are kind, and strong...you helped me. Who,” he swallowed convulsively. “Who r-raped you?”

Vanimórë kissed his cheek.  
“Rape is rape. It matters not. Suffice it to say that I do understand thy feelings, sweet one.” He moved his mouth to cover the prince's, softly, unthreatening, and kissed him until desire welled up and gentleness became passion. Legolas gasped and clung to him, his lips parting. He was so innocent, so eager for any demonstration of affection – _And was I not thus? Am I not still? –_ that Vanimórë felt his self-forged chains strain at each weak point: those links where he starved for love, where his need _to_ love opened into an abyss.  
 _But this is not about me._  
He softened the kiss, ended it, and laid his cheek against Legolas', holding him, hearing the ragged breaths, feeling the desire and confusion, the shame and longing.

 _If I could heal thee by a thought, by a touch...But I cannot. I cannot._ ~

  


 

~~~

 

Tanout Look-a-Like (O.Bloom as Paris, by Theban Band.)My personal vision of Legolas is not film Legolas.  


 


	6. ~ No Comfort In Dream, No Hope In Truth ~

  


**No Comfort In Dream. No Hope In Truth.**

 

 

~ “I have news of Legolas.”

Celeirdúr was lying on his narrow bed, hands behind his head, trying to bend his mind away from his imprisonment, to pleasant memories of the Greenwood. It was impossible. Everything lead him back to Legolas, the things he should have done, could have done, had he not been content to let things be. He did not even have fear to occupy him, for he was too valuable to be misused.

How strange and – not to honey the vinegar – how wrong the situation surrounding his younger brother had been, the secrets, the virtual ostracism, as if Legolas had not existed at all, or were at the least something shameful that must be hidden away.  
Once, he had gone on a diplomatic mission to a chieftain whose folk dwelt in Rhovannion. While he sojourned there, he had heard a wailing coming from one of the houses. It went on and on, carrying no real pain, but monotonous and miserable. At his questioning look, he was told that the sound issued from a madman who was kept shut away. Some babes were born with clubfeet or cleft lips, some simple-minded but otherwise sound. Most were 'given to the wilds,' at birth, the chieftain explained, but this man had not been so afflicted when he was young. The family had sworn to keep him apart from the villagers for his own good as much as theirs, for such mad creatures could not look after themselves, and had no sense of danger, or right and wrong.  
Celeirdúr had been deeply disturbed, but was that man's life so very much different to Legolas'? While the prince understood his father's pain – and it was his own pain, for he had loved Elvýr – he himself would have treasured Legolas the more. And yet he had not. He had treated Legolas with the same casual affection he would show to a favorite deerhound, then gone on with his own duties, offering his conscience the feeble sop that surely their father knew best, and that his reasons were comprehensible. Thranduil had sent Legolas somewhere safe. But when that safety had failed, surely he should have brought his youngest back to the court? A Man's child would not have proved deadly to his health and life.

Now, because of Celeirdúr's ill-conceived plan, Thranduil would agree to peace. It would be a peace where hatred still festered, but peace nevertheless. The _Golodhrim_ would believe it was due to their superior cleverness, and the wood-Elves would see it as forced on them. Yet it was what both lands needed, and the price for it appeared to be Legolas.

Celeirdúr was lost in thought when Glorfindel walked in. Anger flared around him, and Celeirdúr came to his feet in one whiplash motion.

“Where is he?” he demanded.

“He is safe.”

“You have had a message from my father?” Celeirdúr asked in disbelief. Had Legolas been found and Thranduil revoked the banishment?

“No,” Glorfindel said shortly.

“He is _here?_ ”

“No. _Listen._ ”  
Something in Glorfindel's voice frayed at the edges of rage and Celeirdúr choked down his half-uttered words.

“I have spoken to the one who found him; from mind to mind. He is far away.”

“How far? _Where?_ ”

“I cannot judge exactly where, but I will know more, soon.” Glorfindel paced to the window, turned back, curbing his long steps to the confines of the room.  
“When the Alliance gained Mordor,” he continued, “we captured one of Sauron's warriors. He remained as a prisoner of Gil-galad for the next seven years. He was a thrall. An Elf in bondage to Sauron, or so we believed.”

Celeirdúr made an impatient movement. “I heard of him.”  
He had not himself gone to the great war. Although Thranduil had been determined to accompany Oropher, he had flatly refused his sons pleas to join the army. If both Orodreth and Thranduil fell in battle, Elvýr would have become king, and Celeirdúr crown prince, honours neither brother wanted. Celeirdúr had, unforgivably, gone over his father's head to Oropher, whom had also denied him.  
“Our people need you here,” he had said. “You are a fine man, a born warrior and captain. With you and Elvýr the realm could not be in better hands.”

There was sense in it, but still Celeirdúr felt anger and guilt, which was only heightened when news came of Oropher's death. Every day, every night, he feared for his father, gone far under the pall of Orodruin. But Thranduil returned at last, leading a grim and greatly diminished force, through no lack of valor on their part, and with the army came brief rumors of an Elf taken and imprisoned seven long years who might be _Golodh,_ and, impossible though seemed, had been bound by sorcery to Sauron. No-one knew very much, and fewer cared. Celeirdúr had not thought about it in a long time.

“I appointed myself as the thrall's guard,” Glorfindel said. “I came to know him, though not his heritage, and I called him Vanimórë, Beautiful Darkness in the Quenya tongue. He was bound to Sauron with chains of pain and fire. He still is. He is only free because Sauron was – temporarily – defeated, and he went away into the south after. It is he who has found your brother.”

Celeirdúr's breath caught sharply. “Legolas is with some-one who serves _Sauron?_ ” And he watched as Glorfindel's eyes focused blue fury at some-one far away.

“Legolas,” he said, with all that emotion in his voice like fire. “is with Sauron's son.”

 

 

~~~

 

 

Tanout slept with one hand on his sword, and that quite literally. The news that there was an assassin dogging their steps, perhaps even now watching the mansion, was not conducive to easy sleep. Vanimórë appeared unconcerned for himself, but had imposed a ban on the soldiers leaving the mansion for the inns and brothels they were wont to visit.

Annad's stern eyes swept the men.  
“No man here will leave the house without you give orders, Sire,” he vowed. “But Dhölkan would be a fool to use an assassin against you. You have allies here, and if Sud Sicanna lost its ruler – though we know such a thing will not happen – there would be many satraps and sultans eager to put themselves on the throne rather than take their armies to Gondor.That would negate any treaties made at this council. Sud Sicanna is closer than Gondor for most of the southern rulers, and a rich fruit.”

“Quite right,” Vanimórë agreed. “But Dhölkan fears Dorwinion. Forces coming out of the east could be broken or reduced before ever they reach Gondor. He would like to woo them himself, or at least have their promise of neutrality. Why would I go there? I have said the matter is personal, and it is, but Dhölkan does not believe me, and no more would I believe such a tale. Thus he thinks ahead. I will deal with the assassin, _if_ he is given any specific orders. Myself I think he will follow us to Dorwinion.”

No one there found their prince's casual statement arrogant, yet Tanout could not be unconcerned with such a threat in the shadows. There was a dagger and his sword at hand. No assassin would harm his prince or the young Elf if he could prevent it. Legolas had evoked a great protectiveness in Tanout. He was strange yes, or rather his pregnancy was strange, but there was no harm in him and Tanout would challenge any, even among his comrades, who dared to say otherwise.

 

 

~~~

 

 

It was so dark here, once the lantern had gorged its oil. He stared desperately into the murk. There was nothing to see but the walls, the mat on which he slept, but he craved light. He wanted to search out the great rats that came up the latrine hole, to see what brushed his bare flesh, where the noises in his cell originated and what made them. But he thought he knew. Sweat ran like ice down his spine, and he tried again, failed again, to control his breathing. He heard it shatter as a wail floated up through the vent and died away. It was never silent in his wormhole of rock. The forges pounded like the rhythmic fists of a god, but he was long accustomed to that. He curled up, trying to flee fear in sleep, but he dreaded waking to the lightless cell and his throat clenched about the scream he would not loose, for he knew that once he released it, he would never stop.

_I will not go mad._

There was a limit to his strength, and weariness found it at last, dragging him down, past terror and dream.

The crying woke him. It came from a corner of the chamber, the thin keening of a lost child. He thought he saw a shape, small and hunched in on itself, but there was no-one there; no-one in this place but himself. His mouth was parched. He shuddered, straining his eyes uselessly, uncurled himself from the mat and stood, groping.

_Who art thou?_

The weeping ceased. His cheeks felt cold and wet.

_Please._

_Do not leave me here._

He saw himself, in some future time, a thing of skin and bone, face melted into a skull that gaped and drooled in madness, snatching at the bugs and spiders that issued from the latrine, never quite dying, but with nothing human about him....

The child began to cry again, very close, as if it had scuttered to his bedroll unseen. He pressed back against the stone.

 _Do not cry. Oh, Ilúvatar,_ he named the Creator he only knew through his dead Elven friend. _I will not go mad. I will not break for them. I will not break, I will not beg him to come..._

“Please !”

The shadows fragmented into rags, tinted with the red of firelight. A hand touched his face. He seized it and heard a gasp, then found himself staring into Legolas' eyes, the pupils' dilated in the dimness.

“I am sorry.” Vanimórë released his grip on the slender wrist and sat up.

“You were talking,” Legolas began, and that explained the wildness of his eyes. Vanimórë doubted the youth had ever heard Black Speech and certainly not the antique form that Morgoth himself had devised, but an Elven soul would recognize it.

“I was a slave in Angband,” he said gently. “I knew their tongue. Forgive me for alarming thee,” he added seeing the horror strike Legolas and quiver through him.

“Blessed Eru,” the prince whispered. “Angband.” But he did not move away. “How did you escape?”

Vanimórë pushed back his hair.

“I did not.” He rose and went to the fire, feeding it, then poured a cup of wine and drank it off in one long swallow. Legolas, young and hurt, had reached deep into his ancient memories. Usually, when he was assaulted by the past, he was alone. He did not want witnesses. Deliberately, he smoothed the frown from his features before turning to the bed.

“I dream at times,” he said. “But there is nothing there that can harm thee.”

“Dreams can hurt us,” Legolas murmured. “I did not realize, I did not know...when you said you were raped...”

Vanimórë shrugged. “Go back to sleep.” He stepped across and brushed a hand down the wheaten hair. “I have some work to do.” He nodded to the table, neatly stacked with maps, vellum and quill pens.

“You should sleep too,” Legolas' great eyes met his, still half-wild by whatever he had heard.

“I do not need it as much as thou.” Vanimórë smiled and touched the smooth mound of the prince's belly. “He is a strong boy, no wonder thou art tired. Strong like his father. Like both his parents.”

Legolas might have recognized that the conversation was being lead away from its roots, but this remark brought a sad smile to his mouth. He shook his head.

“There are many kinds of strength,” Vanimórë told him. “And thine own is of the highest order; do not doubt it.”

“Would you, please...hold me?”

The hesitation in his tone brought Vanimórë to his knees beside the bed, he said, his voice broken into roughness, “Thou shouldst never have to ask such a thing. I will hold thee, but I will not sleep, to disturb thee again.”

“I was afraid,” Legolas admitted. “But for _you._ ”

“Very few people can look past their own griefs to feel others.” Vanimórë slipped back into the bed, and Legolas nestled back against him trustfully.

“How did you survive?” The soft murmur came after a long, quiet time where the only sound was the comforting crackle of the fire.

“The same way as thou hast survived.”

“I have a child to live for, were it not for that...”

“To say: _there is always hope,_ is a trite platitude,” Vanimórë said. “And yet it is true. What wouldst thou have hoped for, had there been no child?”

Legolas did not answer for a moment, then he said, “Nothing. But I wondered...what it would have been like if he..if Glorfindel had been kind.”

“He should have been,” Vanimórë whispered, so that anger would not color his response. “They all of them should have been.”

“What was he like, when you knew him?”

“He shone like the sun. He was all I had imagined, and I respected him, then.”

Legolas turned carefully onto his back and looked up. Fiery jewels burned down his face.

“Forgive me. I cannot seem to stop crying...there was no-one I could speak to of this b-before...”

“Tears are no weakness either,” said the one who could not weep any-more, and smoothed them away with his fingertips. “And I know, dear one. I know how it is to have no-one to speak to. Glorfindel will regret what he did, Legolas. I know it. I swear it.”

The fair head moved back and forth in denial.  
“I was nothing to him.” He swallowed. “You can speak to me. I cannot...I know I could never understand what you have suffered, but I can listen.”

“My story is not edifying, Legolas, and will give thee no peace.” He laid a finger over the gentle mouth which had parted to speak. “Now listen, lovely one: Thou might have been simply a beautiful virgin to Glorfindel then, but now thou art carrying his son.” Vanimórë raised himself and kissed the soft lips once, then again, feeling the generous, sensual response that Glorfindel could have had for nothing but a few kind words, that he could claim, save that he had no right to it, and could never keep it. He came to hardness, swore at himself inwardly and shifted back a little.

“I will see thee come into the sunlight, Legolas,” he vowed.

~~~

Later, as dawn hovered on the edge of the world, and Legolas had subsided once more into deep sleep, Vanimórë rose and dressed. Sitting at the table, he brushed a hand over the vellum. Even knowing he was unobserved, he did not allow himself to relax. The dream still clung to him like rank smoke; it must not show in his face and he had, after all, much practice in concealing his thoughts. He took a deep, soundless breath, dipped a quill in the ink, and began, with the flick of a taut smile, to write.

_Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen, I bid thee greeting...._

 

 

~~~

 

 

“You are damned well _lying_!” Celeirdúr cried.

“Do you think I would lie about such a thing? I did not know it myself until today. It is no lie, either from him or from me. It is truth.”

Celeirdúr had gone ashen with horror. His hands rose as if to attack, and then grasped at the air in terrible helplessness.  
“Safe? You say he is _safe?_ ”

“I believe he is, yes. Not all servants of Sauron are willing or evil, and least of all Vanimórë.” Glorfindel felt the gall in his mouth like bad wine, but whatever his own personal rage, there was no doubt in him that Vanimórë would treat Legolas well. That should be the only consideration, but it was not. Legolas was carrying Glorfindel's son.

“My father must know of this,” Celeirdúr said, moving as if he would walk out of the door and take horse to the Great Wood then and there. He came to a stop as the reality of his situation struck him afresh, and cursed.

“It is not your father's business any-more,” Glorfindel said coldly. “He has already disowned Legolas and banished him. It is, however, very much _my_ concern. The child Legolas is carrying is my unborn son.”

This time the air was driven out of Celeirdúr's lungs as effectively as if Glorfindel had punched him. He staggered back, a queer blank look in his eyes. His mouth shaped words he could not yet utter, then he groaned and flung himself forward in an explosion of fury, silent and deadly. Glorfindel had prepared himself for it and blocked the high kick with one arm, spinning and thrusting the prince forward. Celeirdúr had not yet regained his balance, but rolled as he fell and came up again. His fist slammed out, Glorfindel swayed aside and snapped his elbow down on Celeirdúr's arm. He followed it up with a movement that took the prince down again and straddled him, pinning his arms. He saw, with shock, that Celeirdúr was weeping noiselessly, passionately.

“Cease, or I will have you in chains!” Glorfindel bit out as if to a subaltern. “I came into your father's realm in pursuit of my captured warriors. I evaded your patrols, and I found a beautiful youth guarding the horses. I knew not whom he was, and how could he know me, with his life and knowledge so proscribed? It was no act of treachery on his part.” And he found he could not tell Celeirdúr that Legolas had indeed known his name after that first time, and never revealed it.

_He was crippled by the thought of his weakness, allowing thee to take him. He had never been close enough to his father to trust him._

Vanimórë's words. Glorfindel hated to agree with anything he had said, but he knew in his soul they were true. Of course Legolas had been terrified into silence. Well, then, let there be silence. Glorfindel would not break it. Neither, he found could he admit that he had overpowered Legolas with brutal ease. He could not go so far along that path to admitting his crime. Not yet.

“May Morgoth take and eat your soul,” Celeirdúr said with flat venom. He turned his head away as if he could not bear to look on Glorfindel's face.

After a moment, Glorfindel rose slowly, anticipating another attack, but Celeirdúr came lithely to his feet and offered his back. Revulsion showed clear in the quiver of his muscles as he said, “You have sent him to his death.”

“ _I_ sent him nowhere.”

“Of course you did!” Celeirdúr whirled back to face him. “No man of Eryn Lasgalen would have touched him! I thank Eru that he never knew who you were!”

Glorfindel forced himself to meet the prince's look of pure, hopeless hatred. Only Legolas' plight had drained him of the will to fight to the death.

“Your father would have killed him,” Glorfindel stated. “His own son. And mine.”

“Yes.” Celeirdúr closed his eyes. “Oh, Legolas.”

 

 


	7. ~ The Birth of a Golden Blossom ~

~ Ekesha eyed the woman with unconcealed disfavor. Stout as a cask, her cloak was frayed at the hem and her gown much faded. The bodice was spotted with stains, her nose declared her a seasoned winebibber, but her eyes were steady, and her hands surprisingly clean. Of more concern was the man she was was with, her son. Tall but very stooped, he wore the face-cloth of the Marked, as the law demanded, for such people, born with a deformity were believed to have been marked by the dark gods, and to look on their faces was to invite the same curse. They were not cast out of society, for it was deemed wise to recognize the power that had touched them, but the Marked were avoided if possible. Now there was one in the house.

“Who sent you?” Ekesha asked. She had spoken to her cousin, who many women called on when their time was due, and for a moment, Brecka's eyes had gleamed at the money offered, but it had not tempted her enough to risk the certain wrath of the Eyes of Sauron if anything went amiss. If Brecka had sent this drab, Ekesha thought, trailing a Marked son, they were truly dipping out the lees, but it was a fact that no-one wanted to risk the wrath of a nobleman, still less this one, wound about as he was by dark myths. The irony was that, from the little Ekesha had seen, the prince was not capricious or cruel. His soldiers behaved well, and did not try to force the servants into their beds; in fact the house was quiet, save for when other rulers came ceremoniously to call upon the prince, strange men with black or gold skin from the southlands, turbans studded with jewels, ears heavy with gold. As for the pregnant girl, all Ekesha had seen was a cloaked figure walking slowly in the garden with the Prince solicitously close. The guards kept every-one away, but that was hardly unusual. Ekesha had caught a glimpse of pale gold hair, and slaves with fair hair were rare and desirable about the inland sea. Some of the servants had tried questioning the Sicannite warriors, but without success. Many soldiers would drink or smoke the Dreaming herb, and their tongues wag. Not these. It said a great deal about the one they served.

“I will see who I can find,” Breka had said. “But I will tell you this: they would have to be desperate or foolish. It is said the Dark Prince – ”

“I know what is said about him.” Brecka was waiting for some morsels of gossip, but Ekesha had not gained and maintained her position by talking about her masters, even this temporary one. It was her duty to pass on information to her lord of course, but servants with slippery tongues tended to have them cut out.

The matter of finding a midwife had since become urgent. Ekesha had seen births and assisted at them, but she was a housekeeper when all was said, and for all his apparent reasonableness, she did not wish to stand in the path of the prince's rage if the birth went badly.

“I heard it round and about, in the Homecoming.” The woman named a waterside inn. “Every-one knows Hathar in the South Quarter. Send to ask Kabucha. His second wife had a boy before the Solstice. A breach birth it was. There's not a child I cannot see safe into this world so long as they be healthy. Kabucha will vouch for me.”

She would not say such a thing if it were untrue, Ekesha reasoned; it was too easy to disprove. With an inward sigh, she lead the woman and her son to her room, keeping her eyes away from him, while she fingered the protective onyx stone that hung at her girdle.  
“I will speak to the prince,” she said.  
The woman settled herself comfortably on the rugs. “Yes, you do that.”

Ekesha would have had the two thrown out at once, but that fat old mare was the only woman who had offered her services. The prince must be informed.

Not long after, Hathar, and her son were escorted to Vanimórë by two warriors. Ekesha would have been dumbfounded had she witnessed what happened next.

~~~

Vanimórë said, “I thought so,” and rose to kiss her.

He saw her as she was: tall, black of skin with eyes that had opened as the earth formed out of fire, but he had seen her as many women over the years. Nothing surprised him where Dana was concerned.

“It is a joy to walk the earth in any form.” She took his face between her rough hands. “And a sorrow.”

“Yes,” he agreed. Everywhere there was injustice and cruelty and everywhere, sometimes in the most unexpected places, there was love and compassion. “I thought I was brought here for reasons other than my own.”

“Of course.” She sat down, looking at him with the expression he was now familiar with: love, appraisal and pity. “I did what I could, lead the child into the hands of the Mhadi. A shame superstition overcame Turuk in the end. Still, I think thou didst put the fear of the Dark Prince into him.” Her eyes laughed.

Vanimórë lifted the wine jug in smiling salute and poured, glancing questioningly at the man. The Marked looked as if they had been prepared for burial, he thought, save that their garb was black, and they occupied a peculiar, quasi-religious position in the lands about the Sea of Rhun, neither outcast not accepted. There was nothing he could do about it; the superstition had deep roots. He poured a third cup of wine, proferring it. The man accepted it with a bow, and turned away to drink through the small mouth-slot.

“His mother was a good woman, save she liked her drink too much.” Dana sipped. “She fell into the estuary this winter past, and her body was taken far out into the sea. I found Nhidan not long after. It was night and raining hard. No-one had seen. Who was to care? Taking her form gives me a reason to be here, and Nhidan knows who I am. Soon I will leave this city, maybe journey with Turuk's clan for a time. Put the fear of the _Mother_ into him. Nhidan will come with me.” She laughed aloud. “Your thoughts are like a battle-trump, boy. No, there is no deformity under that cloth now, but he cannot cast off his raiment until we are away from Szrel Kain. He would be in more danger if folk saw him with the face he has now; they would speak of witchcraft. You know the Marked are not to be interfered with, no physician will treat them, and the south quarter is a warren where every-one knows one another's business. I will see him safe once we are gone from here.”

Vanimórë glanced at Nhidan. He did not stare at the afflicted, it was to treat them as less than human; he had found bright, warm minds in crippled bodies, and no-one had to tell him that monsters could wear a beautiful face. Of course Dana was right, as long as Nhidan remained in Szrel Kain, he would have always be Marked. He said: “He could come with me, if he is fit to ride.”

“Always so generous.” Wrinkles deepened as Dana smiled. “Impulsive too. Perhaps Nhidan will accept your offer. We will speak of it later.” She finished the wine. “Now, take me to the prince. His time is very near.”

Vanimórë took her hand, kissed it, and raised her.  
“I am glad thou art here,” he said.

  
~~~

  
The days had passed mistily for Legolas, like a dream in autumn. Glorfindel was part of those dreams, but when he woke in distress, strong arms would enclose him, a voice murmur reassurance until he sank back into the sleep his body needed.  
As the weather grew warmer, Vanimórë took him into the gardens, where Legolas slipped off his shoes and felt the green life bursting up through the grass. To be outside was like drinking deep after great thirst, though he could not go far, feeling the constraints of both his body and the enclosing walls. He yearned to feel the winds unfettered by stone, to ride and run, but both were impossible at this time, and a gravid calm settled on him as the birth approached. He could _feel_ the thread of his soul and that of the child weaving together, a rope of silk as strong as steel.

Vanimórë had said nothing more about speaking to Glorfindel, though he did speak _of_ him and encourage Legolas to talk. That was difficult. It never became easier, and he would stumble to a halt, and look for contempt in the face of one who had survived Angband. How could Vanimórë not scorn weakness?  
Angband. Legolas wished he could not imagine it, but the Hells of Iron had been a weight on the Elder Days that had touched his kin, and through their blood, he knew it. He saw it as a vast maw of iron and blood gaping in the icy north, a place that ate life and hope and disgorged death.  
And Vanimórë had survived it.  
One day, he timidly asked Tanout about the prince, only to realize that the young man knew less than he, and whereas Legolas was an Elf and accepted ageless life, Tanout, a Mortal, regarded Vanimórë as a living myth. The thought had given Legolas pause. He had never considered before how Men viewed Elves.

“He came to us long ago,” was all Tanout would say. “There are many tales surrounding him, but all I know for certain is that he is a very great man.”

 _A very great man._ Yes. But Legolas still wondered if Vanimórë had rescued him out of a sense of rigid honor that would not permit him to ignore some-one in need.  
“My dear,” Vanimórë said. “Cease fretting. Trust me.”

The river of fate had swept Legolas far from his home, and deposited him in this calm eddy. He was incapable of fighting it, and oh Eru, he needed Vanimórë's protection, and had come to depend on him for everything, not the least, comfort: a hand on his hair, a kiss to his brow, an embrace, a smile. He did not have to earn them, they were freely given.

Legolas' appetite increased as the spring advanced, and his belly grew round below his breasts. He appreciated the baths that helped soothe the ache in his back, although he could not get used to Vanimórë's nakedness, and would avert his eyes. At times, he could not help but peek and then he blushed at his thoughts, but Vanimórë seemed oblivious, and was never intrusive. He washed Legolas gently, rinsed his hair and then would sit back, arms spread on the tiles, and talk of diverse matters. In the evenings, he dealt with correspondence and orders, and when he had finished, wrote out the histories he had learned long ago, transcribing them into Quenya, which tongue was forbidden in the Greenwood realm. Legolas did not know why Vanimórë would have him learn that tongue, except that Glorfindel would surely know it.

Now, Legolas put aside the sheaf of vellum as if it were hot to his hand. _The Twelve Houses of Gondolin: The House of the King, the House of the Fountain, the House of the Golden Flower..._  
He did not dare try to read more.  
 _The Golden Flower._ Golden hair, and a face and body planed by a master-hand to godlike beauty. He closed his eyes. Vanimórë had been called away, and for the moment he was alone, a rare occurrence. He walked toward the window, seeing a gleam of sunlight strike the glass.  
 __

 _Sunlight. The device of a rayed sun. Gold and green livery, like a field in spring..._  
 _Do not think about him._ He caught back a hopeless choke. _His child is growing inside me..._

  
The rain had stopped. He felt it sinking down into the rich earth to nourish all things that grew.  
 _Growing, as the child is..._

  
It happened then, and Legolas froze as water trickled warm down his legs. He thought for a horrified moment that he had lost control of his bladder, and hurried as best he could to the latrine, wiping his legs clean with a wet cloth. His robe was was deep blue, but he could see dark splotches on it, and what of the rug where he had been standing? He carried the bowl out, tried to get down on his hands and knees.  
 _What is happening?_ He pressed the back of one hand against his eyes, then went perfectly still as the outer door opened. Vanimórë came into the room, a large woman behind him, and a man entirely concealed in black robes, even to his face.

“I am sorry, I...” The wet stain seemed enormous, a pool of his own uselessness and shame.

“Your waters have broken,” the woman said in a rough, brusque voice that was strangely calming. “Did you not explain this to him?” she chided Vanimórë.  
Legolas felt himself lifted up and was placed gently on the bed.

“I did not think,” Vanimórë said. The woman snorted and surged across.  
“There is nothing to fear. The birth is close now.” She felt Legolas' stomach gently, then straightened and elbowed Vanimórë in the ribs. “Stop hovering, you great useless lump. Have the servants bring all we need. The housekeeper will know if you do not.”

Legolas stared at her. If he had not been so confused and alarmed, he would have laughed. Vanimórë threw a mock-glare at her.  
“Yes, _Mother._ I have seen births.”

She winked at Legolas. “Now, young one, you listen to old Hathar, and do not worry.”

The birth contractions began not long after.

Legolas had not imagined pain so intense, so deep within, as if an orc's hand had reached inside him, twisting and pulling. The world was only pain; it was all there was, all there had ever been. He clung to Vanimórë's hands and groaned, tears bleeding down his cheeks.

 _Legolas, hold on, my dear. Hold on to me._

 _Oh, blessed Eru, help me !_

“Breathe shallow now, child.”

He tried to obey the woman's voice, panting out the agony. He had forgotten his home, forgotten even Glorfindel, the birth chained his consciousness like iron fetters.

But Glorfindel had not forgotten him. As soon as the labor-pangs started, Vanimórë flung open the doors of his mind, his anger amplifying the intensity of emotion that slammed like a cavalry charge into Glorfindel's soul. He had been expecting something, but until it came, he did not know _how_ he would feel.  
The birth enveloped him, dragged him in...

...Into a dark crimson place, pulsing with veins, with two heartbeats. Movement. Pain. Red hot. White hot.  
 _Blessed Eru, help me !_  
 _Legolas._

A fluttering spark of newness.  
 _My child..._  
He felt as if an artery opened, and that eager awareness entered his bloodstream, its essence merging with his own. Then there was light, and _oh!_ An overwhelming sensation of _being_...

Elrond was kneeling beside him. Glorfindel raised his head and stared toward the east. His heart was thundering, his brow damp.  
“My son is born.” He rose and turned away so that Elrond would not see his face.

  
~~~

  
“Gîlríon.” Legolas' voice was weary, but as the child was placed on his breast, his face shone like a candle.

“You did well.” Dana washed her hands. Vanimórë raised Legolas to drink, then kissed his brow, smoothing his sweat-dampened hair.  
“Glorfindel felt the birth,” he murmured. “I opened my mind to him, but I think he would have known anyway.”

Legolas nodded. “I know.” He closed his eyes, and whispered, “Thank you.”

 _Vanimórë!_ Glorfindel's mind-voice was complex, twisted away from simple rage into pure tension.

 _Thy son is beautiful,_ Vanimórë answered flatly, as he threw the bloodied water down the latrine and replaced it with clean, and then he barred his mind.

  
~~~

  
“I wonder what you intend,” Dana murmured, when they had closed the door to the bedroom. They had changed the mattress and soiled sheets themselves, leaving the baskets in the hall for the servants. Legolas now slept deep amid the scent of dried flowers.  
“You are not even sure yourself. And the paths of intention are often twisted out of all recognition.” She drank wine, Nhidan taking his cup to the corner of the room, and turning away. Old habits died a slow death.

“I want to heal him, and I cannot,” Vanimórë said.

“You can do more than you think.”

Vanimórë lifted his shoulders. “I cannot keep Legolas, much though I want to. For all I posture as the Prince of Sud Sicanna, I am a slave waiting for his master's return. I know Sauron is on Middle-earth somewhere, growing in strength. Anyhow, Legolas is not mine to keep, nor is his son. Glorfindel bonded with the babe.” He strode to the window. “I should do what I threatened: take them both south, raise them as princes, train them in the arts of war, make the child loathe Glorfindel. It is very easy to hate one's father.” His teeth shut. “That golden haired bastard deserves to suffer, so why do I balk? Even were I free I could not do that. Why not?”

“He is beginning to suffer.”

“Not enough! He cannot suffer enough! And I revered him once. He seemed to epitomize everything I imagined the Eldar to be. Strange that I could have retained such naivety. And yet, do I not understand the darkness that can eat at our souls?”

“One can find excuses even for Melkor's acts if one goes deep enough, Vanimórë.”

He turned, brows raised. “Do _you_ forgive Morgoth?”

Her smile was the Mother's, elusive and double-edged.  
“I never said that. He served – still serves – a purpose. You will see that one day. Why can you not do this thing? Deep within, you do not believe it right that a father should hate his son.”

Vanimórë's eyes blazed for a moment. Nhidan had turned and was looking at him.  
“Enough. I cannot keep him. I do what I can in Sud Sicanna, but it is no place for Legolas or his child. I could not even give him freedom, just a palace.” He shook his head. “It would become a prison for both of them, and people would fear what he is. My soldiers do, save Tanout, who knows how it is to be alone and afraid and young enough to be accepting of things he cannot understand.”

Dana nodded. “No, you cannot keep Legolas and his son forever, but while he is with you, you can help him. You have helped him already. Taking him to Rhovannion is a good idea, but you are increasingly isolated, Vanimórë, and you know it. It might have been better to pretend to consider attacking Gondor.”

“I always have been isolated, Lady,” he said indifferently. “And hyenas will only attack a lion if it is wounded. Fools, all of them. They think if they took Gondor they would be allowed to keep it, when Sauron returns?” He laughed, shaking his head. “And their alliance would not last a day if they succeeded in occupying Gondor. Every ruler from here to Bellakar would want the throne. No, I will return to Sud Sicanna through Gondor if the east is closed to me. They will grant me safe passage.” He crossed to her. “I leave as soon as Legolas is fit to travel. Dhölkan has a hired killer waiting to see what I do. I would like him out in the open.” He met Nhidan's veiled eyes. “Now _that_ is an excellent disguise for an assassin. If I did not know thee...”

“Your guards _were_ extremely careful, I noticed.” Dana took the hand Nhidan held out to her and rose. “Legolas will need rest, sleep and good food, but his body will heal quickly enough. His soul...that is another matter. I will come at noon tomorrow.”

“Thou art welcome to stay.”

“Hathar would go home and get drunk on the coin she was paid.”

“I recognize a hint.” He placed a bag of silver in her hand, saw her feel over the coins.  
“Generous, as I said. The midwives will be sour as vinegar when they learn. And they will.” She went to the door and outside, looking anxious was Tanout. It was not his watch, but Vanimórë let it lie.  
“A beautiful boy,” he said. “All is well. Escort Hathar to the gates, bring Ekesha up, and then come and have a cup of wine.”

“Yes, sire.” Tanout saluted, then, “Thank you, Sire. I was worried.”

“Best midwife in the east, boy,” Hathar pronounced and winked at Vanimórë. ~

 

~~~


	8. ~ Traitor's Night, Assassin's Moon ~

 

 

 

Legolas, by Estelile on Poser. This is how I like to imagine him, as he is so beautiful.

 

~~~

 

~ Osulf was forced to concede that it would be almost impossible to get into the house, and he had no orders to do so, only to observe. Since the Dark Prince did not leave the mansion, there was nothing to see. Visiting dignitaries came to Vanimórë, declaring the prince's preeminence in the south louder than any trumpet. Well might Dhölkan and the other eastern rulers be concerned at his neutrality toward Gondor.  
Osulf was intrigued and a little concerned. Vanimórë _knew_ there was a potential threat. He had sewn up his security tighter than a miser's purse, but only _after_ returning from his meeting with Dhölkan. The man had incredible instincts, but Osulf was not surprised. The soldiers did not leave the grounds, and the tradesmen delivering goods were checked before being permitted into the yard. Gossip trickled out into the city, but most of it could be dismissed as nonsense. So far, Osulf had learned only one thing that might be of interest. The prince had a pregnant woman in the house, so guarded that even the servants were not permitted to see her. In the Red Sun, a busy inn outside the walls of the old quarter, he gathered that the prince sought a midwife, but suddenly all the midwives in Szrel Kain had vanished. In the end, he had been forced to use a notorious old drunk, probably too pickled in cheap wine to be afraid of the consequences. He saw her coming and going, her and her Marked son, swathed in black. People gossiped about that too.

The night was well-advanced when the message came that took him through the devious ways of the palace. Alert even at that hour, Dhölkan merely gestured to the man waiting in the room. He must be past fifty, but carried himself like a soldier. There was no fear in his eyes as they met Osulf's.

“This is Captain Annad, one of the Dark Prince's most trusted officers.” Dhölkan's tone was salted with contempt; it sparked a flash in the man's eyes. “This is Osulf, captain. The finest assassin in the cities of the inland sea. I want you to repeat what you have just told me.”

“Why must we go through it again?”

“I want him to hear it from your own mouth.”

Annad moved to the table and drank from a bowl of wine. The guards at the doors watched him steadily, hands on their sword-hilts.  
“My...the prince sent two messages out four days ago,” he said. “One was to the north. That is all I know. They left two days before me. I was bound for Rhovannion.”

Dhölkan lifted an opened letter from the table. It was written in Westron, and contained nothing of interest. Vanimórë _would be pleased to visit Cadmon before returning to the south._

“What was the verbal message?” Osulf asked.

“There was none.”

“Carrier pigeon perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Annad said curtly. “I have no knowledge of any such message.”

“Strange he did not trust you,” Osulf murmured. “but then...perhaps not. Here you are.”

There was ill-concealed amusement in Dhölkan's voice. “Go on, Captain.”

“I have been privy to the prince's councils, and know he intends to remain neutral toward Gondor.” He sipped the wine again. “He does not think you would raise a hand against him, and nor do I. It would be a foolish thing to do. But you need him.”

“No,” Dhölkan said slowly. “I do not need _him,_ or rather, I do not want him. He is too dangerous. But I do need his support. They say he has the finest army in the south, and he is certainly the wealthiest ruler. War is such an expensive business.” He turned to Osulf. “How many Haradhrim rulers have visited him?”

“Twelve, so far.”

“Yes. And none of them have pledged their support to me.”

“Ah.”

“He said, if you remember, that he had no _instructions_ to move against Gondor.”

Osulf nodded and looked at the soldier. “Do _you_ believe he is the Eyes of Sauron?” he asked with light stinging mockery. “Does he commune with the Dark Lord and act on his _instructions?_ ”

“I do not know, but he consorts with demons.”

“ _Demons?_ ”

“There is a demon in the house. The prince says he is one of the _Lichtloth_ of the north.”

“White demons,” Dhölkan explained.

Osulf did not hide his derision. “An Elf? Tales say the prince is Elf or demon, yet you have served him faithfully until now.”

“This is not the same.”

“How so?”

“The demon looks like a young male. But it was pregnant, and has since given birth to a child.”

Dhölkan glinted in satisfaction at Osulf's expression.

“I am not mad or mistaken,” Annad said flatly. “We were told the _Lichloth_ was a prince.”

“No doubt you misheard,” Osulf offered.

“I was there when we found it. Pretty it was, but my eyes do not mistake male for female. It has been kept in secret. The prince appointed one of his his favorites to keep the thing company, but no-one else.”  
 _Ah,_ Osulf thought, _Jealousy._  
“Tanout was eager enough, of course. Anything to please. Said he was sorry for it.”

Osulf caught Dhölkan's eye. There was a long moment of thoughtful silence. Annad poured more wine.

“So, there is an Elf demon in the house who looks like a man and has given birth to a child,” Osulf said, straight-faced. “That does sound rather unlikely.”

“I care nothing for what you think, assassin. It is the truth. The demon was brought here by people of the Mhadi. Some sort of tribe.” Dhölkan nodded. “The clan leader thought the thing ill-luck too. He was going to sell it. The priests of the dark gods would have sacrificed it. Is it not wrong to cheat the gods of their dues?”

“I understood,” Dhölkan said, “that the dark gods have not been worshiped in Sud Sicanna for a long time, and that there is no human sacrifice there. Why would you care?”

“And would a demon be an acceptable sacrifice to the dark gods?” Osulf wondered. “Traditionally they seem to prefer innocents and virgins.”

Annad made the sign of the Eye. “Mock if you wish,” he growled. “I have given you information you can use.”

“What has made a captain of the Dark Prince turn traitor?” Dhölkan mused. “He looks after his soldiers. They are given houses, pay less tax, and receive a pension on retirement. The wounded have stipends, and the widows of soldiers also, their husbands' homes reverting to them for life. Sud Sicanna attracts men to its army as rotten fruit attracts wasps.”

Annad sneered. “Oh yes, all those things. I will have a house when I retire, yes. A house and a pension. Pah ! For forty years of service? For a mass of scars and almost losing my eye?”

“You think you deserve more?” Dhölkan asked with spurious sympathy. “No doubt you have saved the prince's life in battle, and he has never repaid you as you deserve?”

The man glared blackly at him.  
“I have debts,” he hissed. “Heavy debts. The prince has ah...loaned me coin to repay them over the years.. But now he says: _From the lowest to the highest, the laws are the same. I have told you I will settle your debts one last time, if you vow not to gamble again._ ” he breathed hard through his nose.

 _Ah, a stupid gamer,_ Osulf thought. _And **I** will wager that you paid your creditors just enough to keep them off your back, trading on the certainty that they would not come down too heavily on one of their prince's officers. _

“I thought it would come down to money,” he said aloud. “And your prince will let you suffer the consequences if you do not accept his offer? That does seem ungrateful.”

“The prince houses beggar brats in the palace, and now they walk proud as princes themselves.” Annad clenched a fist, not answering. “A thousand in gold, you said, lord.” He looked hard at Dhölkan. “I will leave tonight.”

“You think the prince should simply give you the money and also pay your debts, or maybe warn off your creditors?” Osulf was contemptuous, and did not hide it. “When your last gamble failed, you decided to leave his service far from those to whom you owe money.” He smiled. “Am I right? There were probably gifts with that letter, were there not?”

“Do not take that tone with me, assassin ! I know your kind and I do not fear you.”

_And I know your kind, too. Were you a favorite once? Is that where this bitterness comes from? No, I doubt it. You resent that your former lord has great wealth. You believe yourself entitled to something you have never earned. He offered to settle your debts, but the thought of all that money given to others was enough to make you weep. You do not want to give up your addiction, and rather than face the consequences you will play turncoat and flee. Yes, I know your kind. And so does he._

Dhölkan unlocked a chest, unperturbed by the potential for violence.  
“Yes,” he said. “I have given Annad their value in coin. I think you would be wise to leave soon, captain. I have horses and provisions waiting in a safe place outside the city. Osulf will guide you there.” He tossed the money bags on the table. “You know the place.”

Osulf bent his head in acknowledgment. “I have to say, I feel you are overpaying him. How will you use this information against the prince?”

Annad looked up from feeling the heavy coins.  
“He has feelings for this demon, and for Tanout. Do not be fooled. He is soft with those he cares for.” His mouth twisted. “There is your leverage, if you can get them.”

Dhölkan pinched his nose thoughtfully. “I want influence over him, yes. I do not want him declaring war on me. And I may be old, but I do not want to be sent to the earth early. Osulf, do you conduct the Captain to the horses, and return to me. I must think on this. May the dark gods go with you, Captain. They must be pleased with you.”

~~~

It took some time to get to north wall, and neither man spoke until the city was behind them.

“There,” Osulf kept his voice low as he pointed to where a hillock nudged the wide sky. There was a quarter-moon like a saber; the knife-moon, they called it in the the Harad. The assassin's moon.

“Lead on.” And Osulf, that skilled assassin, felt the prick of a knife at his back.

“What happened to the men who were with you?” he asked. He knew.

“What do you think?” Annad said heavily. “I had no choice. Finest assassin around the inland sea, are you?”

“I have killed many people,” Osulf replied. “Do not doubt it.”

“Keep moving and keep quiet, _assassin._ ”

There were trees at the foot of the hill. They whispered secrets to one another in the night-wind

“The horses are up there.” Osulf stopped, and the dagger prodded. He winced and began to walk again. “There is an old alter at the top. A place of sacrifice long ago, they say. No-one comes here.”

Annad grunted. “Convenient.”

“You have no reason to kill me, captain. You could use me. No-one else could get to those the Dark Prince cares for.” He felt the man listening. “Dhölkan would try to use them. I could do more. And I kill for purposes of my own.”

“I have known men like you. The prince executes them in Sud Sicanna. They die very slowly.”

“You hate Vanimórë, but you cannot hurt him save through those he loves. He is wealthy beyond the dreams of most kings, but when the knife was at your throat, he turned away.”

Annad cursed. “All kings are pigs with their snouts in the trough before better men. I would have killed him long ago, but no-one can. He is deathless.”

“You could have killed this Tanout, and the demon.” _But you knew he would slay you._

“ _Enough !_ ” A blow cracked across his head and he stumbled to his knees. “Move and I cut your throat.” He heard the thump of the saddlebags hitting the ground, then Annad jerked back his arms, and leather bit into Osulf's flesh as his hands were tied. “Clever-mouthed assassin. I do not want you on my tail, but you should be able to get out of these binds by dawn. Yes. Go and kill the prince's pets. Kill him if you can. I will even tell you how you can get close. The Marked one. Strange customs they have here, but no-one ever sees their faces. And that old slut would never notice.”

“You truly want him dead?” Osulf asked curiously.

“It has been my dream.” Annad's voice dropped as if he savored the thought. “I always hated him. He walks as if he rules the world.”

Osulf said nothing. Annad tickled him under the chin with the knife until the blood came, laughed dourly and walked away.

~~~

Annad breathed easier after he had lead the horses down the hill and mounted for the ride north. It would be difficult alone, and he wished he had thought of hiring servants, but they would require payment, and mercenaries demanded it. When dawn came, he would examine the maps and head to a town where he could purchase a cheap slave, he decided, tilting the wine-skin. He only drank when off duty and had never developed a taste for it, but by the dark gods, he deserved it now. It made his head swim pleasantly, and he suddenly laughed. How easy it had been ! He was free. Free and wealthy. He turned and made an obscene gesture toward the city and his former lord.  
“I hope he succeeds, you son of a slut.”

His mount screamed and reared as something pale sprang out of the dark. Annad threw himself clear and rolled, dragging his sword from its sheath. The great wolf raised its head, eyes red as blood. Annad struck out, but the beast moved sinuously aside and the sword point hissed through air. The man whirled, crouching as it slipped past, and in a disjointed moment, he saw Osulf pacing toward him. His eyes were the wolfs' eyes.

“Stupid man,” Osulf said, mildly. “You may be a good soldier, but you are not a _thinker._ I wager Vanimórë did all the thinking for you. Did you plan _any_ of this?”

Annad yelled a Haradhic war-cry and charged. There was a blur of air. He tripped over a tussock of grass.

“No. You wanted the money. You put yourselves into the hands of a killer and _trusted him?_ I admit I did toy with your mind a little, but it was so very easy. No challenge at all.”

Annad regained his balance and spun. The wolf slunk around him, belly low to the ground, its movements almost serpentine.

“I am not truly an assassin, of course,” Osulf said behind him. “But I _have_ killed many people. Far more than you can imagine.”

And he raised his face to the knife-moon and howled.

Urine flooded into Annad's boots. A high noise shrilled through his head. He did not know it was himself.  
Something crashed into his back and he went down, tasting dirt. He clung to his sword-hilt, gulping for the air that had exploded out of his lungs.

“I hate traitors.” Osulf stamped on his wrist until the bones broke, and tossed the sword away. Annad vented one short shriek. He was turned roughly onto his back, and a boot smashed into the side of his head. Through the agony he felt himself being dragged by one foot, the rough turf jolting his wounds. With a grunting curse which was half a sob, he freed his dagger with his left hand. The wolf's teeth snapped shut through leather, skin and bone.  
Annad's mouth gaped wide.

 _Unfortunately, in my present circumstances, I do need that gold myself,_ the wolf said conversationally into Annad's mind. _But there are other things I need more._

The man screamed and screamed as the wolf bit off both hands, as he was dragged back up the hill, where the stone lay waiting, as it had waited for so many years, since the first men had dedicated it to the dark, to blood.

_This was a place of sacrifice, and as it was dedicated to me, it seems fitting that I use it. It truly does help._

“Perhaps I would be more merciful if you had not spoken of killing my son,” he said, as he dragged off the boots. One foot flopped uselessly. “He is exceedingly useful to me. You dreamed of killing him. You pettifogging little traitor. You have no concept of what it is to truly dream.”

The wolf's massive jaws tore away one leg at the knee. And it began to feast. Annad made dreadful sounds before he died.

He was not strong enough, not yet, and blood was a slow and primitive way of regaining his powers. But it was not without its compensations, Sauron thought; pain and terror were potent. Blood-magic was real enough, and Sauron had had to rely on it before, but it largely depended on the blood, which was why priests sacrificed children. In their own garbled way they understood the strength of purity. But a child-bearing male Elf and a baby? Such mystery there, such rare power, if it were true; it would be a waste to let such sacrifices burn up in greasy smoke.

~~~

Legolas set Gîlríon down in the cradle, and watched as he slept, arms beside his head, flower-hands hands curled into fists, moist pink mouth like an unopened bud. The love overtook him sometimes, like a storm wind, and left him near tears. Even Glorfindel could not fail to love such a piece of perfection.

Glorfindel...Legolas looked at Vanimórë's under his lashes as he slipped back into the bed. Twice since the birth, yesterday and today, he had found himself waking to deep orgasms after dreaming of Glorfindel inside him. Both times had been when he rested at noon, and he had been alone, but he was ashamed and worried that it would happen at night. Last night he had been afraid to sleep. He could not understand it, wanted to speak of it, but shied from admitting such a thing. Vanimórë had said it was not wrong to feel pleasure, but even in dreams...? And why now? In the mild calm before Gîlríon's birth, he had wanted only comfort. His body had become a stranger to him, and he had not thought of pleasure, although the memory of the pain and ecstasy never left him. In the last days, however, he found himself waking hard, and imagining being filled to screaming, the thrusts that touched that secret place inside him. He curled onto his side, facing the cradle.

_Oh..._

Fire sparked and melted through his skin. He clenched around the finger that slid into him, smooth, purposeful, but gentle. There was a drum beating in his groin; he heard a harsh, shuddering sigh. A hand linked into his, drew them both to his burgeoning cock, and closed over it. He jerked, arched his neck.

Another finger joined the first, widening him further, then another and he bit into his lip and moaned. They were still for a moment inside him and his whole body tensed, then quivered.

_Please, no. Please...more._

A slow stroking began and he hissed and then, then, the fingers were _there_. There. _Oh !_ He melted into boneless need, his hand gripped his shaft, so hard now, _so hard,_ and a thumb swept across the tip, swirled the beading wetness over it. He pushed back against a hard chest, felt the iron length against him, wanted to beg for it, but his mind shattered, and when he thought he would scream from the terrible pressure and thought now, _now_ he would break apart, it took him further. He thought of crushed grass, and the scent of musk, and _painpleasurepain._

And _then_ he broke; again, again, again, in throbs that spasmed his body and left him limp. Warmth jetted against his buttocks. He felt it licked off, then the mouth was on his and he tasted seed before the lips traced a path to his loins and drank his own spilled essence, licking it languorously from the palm of his hand. He opened his eyes, unable to speak.

“It is good that thou canst need this.”

He had known, then. He was smiling.

“But I think I know what it is thou doth truly need.” He drew Legolas into a his arms, enfolding him completely.

 _Didst thou enjoy that, Glorfindel?_ Vanimórë asked.

And in Imladris, Glorfindel shook with the aftermath of his own orgasm.

_He brought me to release just by my pleasuring him. So sweet, so passionate, so responsive._

_Where is he? Where is my son?_ Glorfindel's voice raged across the leagues like thunder. _Where art thou? I will tear out thy damned heart when I find thee !_

 _Why, whatever have I done?_ Vanimórë kissed Legolas' silk-floss hair.

Far off in the night, a wolf howled. ~

~~~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. ~ A Confluence Of Needs ~

  
“Annad is dead,” Vanimórë said quietly, watching Legolas sitting with Gîlríon. The days were hot, although as the inland sea warmed, it could precipitate violent thunderstorms. Now though, it was settled and good for Legolas to be out under the trees with the cool murmur of fountains close by, a breeze in his hair and bright flowers blooming.

Tanout stared, and Vanimórë smiled quick reassurance at the young man.  
“He went to Dhölkan. It was in his mind even before he left for Rhovannion.”

“He _betrayed_ you, Sire? But why?”

“His creditors were pushing him hard. He is – rather _was_ – a bad gambler, but thou doth surely know that.”

Surprisingly, Tanout's flushed.  
“Yes, Sire, we all know that.”

“And people say that for years I have paid his debts, and he boasted that it was because I value him so much, no?”

“Sire, I...”

Vanimórë released him from his embarrassment with a laugh.  
“I know my men, Tanout. Annad was of use to me, of course. He was a good warrior, and obeyed orders unthinkingly, which of course I demand. Absolutely no imagination, unlike some,” he teased.

“I would never betray you, Sire,” Tanout protested, keeping his voice low. Nevertheless, Legolas glanced up, and Vanimórë made a hardly-perceptible depressing motion with one hand.

“Of course not,” he said. “Annad loathed me, and I wanted him where I could keep an eye on him. Selling me out to Dhölkan was desperate and stupid, and I am not sure that Dhölkan will do anything with the information. But,” he murmured, “We may have to leave the city quickly. We are too easily trapped here.”

“We would have to fight our way out,” Tanout agreed, equally soft. “And streets are no place for cavalry.”

“It is a possibility only,” Vanimórë said. “But we will prepare for it. Now, listen: Annad killed Trakn, Brenai, and Adri before coming back to the city.” Tanout stiffened.  
“They would never have allied with him, and he knew it. I feel lives end, Tanout, the moment the soul leaves the body. I chose those three to accompany him because they are older men with children and grandchildren. They have lived full lives and left legacies; they are not youths who have not even begun to live.”  
He had regretted the choice, but he had made far more cold-blooded ones in his life, and even now, men he trusted were riding to Rhovannion. He did not know what exactly had happened to Annad, save his death had been agonizing, and Dhölkan had not ... _directly_ had anything to do with it. The old man was no fool, even if Annad was. He knew trouble when he saw it.  
“But there is still the hired killer. Hmm. I wonder if Dhölkan...”

“Sire.” A guard stepped from the house and saluted. “A messenger from Prince Dhölkan begs urgent audience with you.”

“Would be canny enough to deal with a traitor for me.” Vanimórë's laugh rippled out. Legolas looked up again, and Vanimórë blew a kiss, delighted to see the youth's blushing confusion,and that he did look confused rather than guilt-stricken. He was a delight to the eye sitting there under the tree, hair pale and glossy as silk, gathered into a loose knot, for Gîlríon already liked to catch at it with tiny, nimble fingers.

 _He is far too tempting for me to forbear touching him, giving him some pleasure; too lovely for me. So much to give, but to some-one who deserves it._

“I will see him now,” he said. “Stay close to Legolas, Tanout.”

“Should I tell him anything, Sire, if he asks?”

Vanimórë considered. “Why worry him unduly? If he needs to know, I will talk to him.”

Legolas was recovering well after the difficult pregnancy, his flowering desires were evidence of that, but his physical health did not worry Vanimórë so much as the still-festering spiritual wound, which was beyond his ability to mend. He could salve it, dress it, but it would not close under his hands.

“I do not want him troubled,” he said softly. “And I would not like to have to rush he and the babe from the city, not yet.”

~~~

Counselor Drishnai was a hard-eyed man who was probably conversant with most of the left-handed politics of the city. He kept his countenance admirably as he told the tale of Annad's betrayal, his theft of the gifts meant for Cadmon of Rhovannion. Vanimórë almost laughed again when Drishnai announced that his lord had, of course, paid Annad in coin for them and would return them.

“I think not. Dhölkan may call them a gesture of my gratitude. So. How did he kill my former soldier?”

The man's dark gaze did not waver. He thought Vanimórë was trying to startle him into saying more than he should. And he was right.  
“Annad left the city last night, lord, after meeting with my prince.”

“Whether or no, Annad is dead.”

And that did evoke a reaction; the merest flicker, but Vanimórë was watching for it.

“Indeed? Well, he was carrying some wealth. Rich pickings. It seems you know more than I.”

“I felt him die. And now, I would like to know everything he told Dhölkan before he left.”

Drishnai looked as if he were wondering how much use prevarication would be.  
“Babble,” he shrugged. “He spoke of men having babies, _Shendi,_ and demons.”

Vanimórë gestured to the wine. “Do drink. It is very good.” And, as the man inclined his head, and rolled a mouthful over his tongue: “Hast thou ever seen a demon? I am the closest thou art likely to come.”

Drishnai coughed and flinched as Vanimórë patted him on the back. Was it worth pushing him? Probably not. Dhölkan had sent him to show he was innocent of any collusion, and had certainly told him no more. A clever man would never confide everything, and Dhölkan was very clever. He was, at the moment, sending a clear signal that he wanted no trouble. But he knew who was responsible for Annad's death, of that Vanimórë was certain, and as for the information the traitor had vouchsafed, Dhölkan was undoubtedly mulling it over to see if any were usable. Vanimórë sat back and drank as Drishnai recovered his dignity.

~~~

“You cannot just _go._ ”

Glorfindel turned slowly. “The argument, if there was one, is over.”

Elrond's jaw set. “You may not come back. Be sensible. The East is thick with men who serve Sauron, and you will stand out like a sunflower on Orodruin !”

Later, Glorfindel would find that dourly amusing.  
“Do you think I am a fool?” he asked. “I can conceal myself.” He shook out the long scarf of green cloth he held in his hands. “In the Last Alliance, when we fought Men from the south, many of them hid their faces. I can disguise myself. People see what they expect to see, Elrond. Men especially.”

“You are going to your death,” Elrond said with melded anger and anguish.

“Is that foresight? If so, I do not share it,” Glorfindel told him. “And even if it were true, I would essay this. What would you do? Go on, tell me, Elrond, what would _you_ do if you found you had a child being raised by the son of Sauron?”

Elrond turned away.  
“I would never be in this situation, Glorfindel.” His voice went cold. “If you go, it is without my blessing.”

“I can live without it !”

At the door, Elrond stopped.  
“And you will go alone.”

Glorfindel did not answer, and there was nothing else Elrond could say. If the Imladrian warriors, now released from hundreds of years of war, knew the reason behind Glorfindel's leaving, more than a few would offer to join him. Glorfindel elicited loyalty, as had been shown the previous day when Elladan and Elrohir had discovered what was afoot, and told Elrond they would accompany Glorfindel wherever he went. Had he not trained them from youth? Was he not also a dear friend? The argument had ended with the twins furious, almost rebellious, at Elrond's prohibition. He would have to watch them closely. With Celebrian in Lothlórien, there was no firm yet gentle hand on their reins.

Closing the door with unnecessary force, he walked down the corridor, which seemed unusually silent. Their conversation had obviously been heard and people were keeping out of his way. What would he do? Glorfindel was right, of course. Elrond could never allow a child of his to be raised by the son of the Elves greatest enemy since Morgoth.

~~~

Glorfindel departed in the grey hours before dawn. He had spent some time in the library copying, and in some cases appropriating, old maps of Rhovannion and the lands beyond, though little was known of them save Mordor and the great Sea of Rhun. Driven by rage he might be, but he was no feckless youth; he had prepared, and considered Legolas' whereabouts by running over what Vanimórë had told him:  
 _Taken in by some tribesmen traveling east after a summer of trading._  
Celeirdúr, still a hostage in the protracted truce-talks, but moved now to more palatial quarters and able to write freely to his father, had been eager to tell Glorfindel everything he knew about the Men who came north in the summer. If he could have gone after Legolas himself he would, he said, but although he remained whitely furious, he seemed relieved that _some-one_ would take up the search for his younger brother. Furthermore, he had declined to tell Thranduil who was the father of Legolas' child. He said coolly, that it would not help the nascent peace, fragile as it was, and that much was true. Celeirdúr, prince and diplomat, wanted to kill Glorfindel; the desire scorched from him, was in the burn of his eyes. He buried his antipathy for his youngest brother's sake, and that alone.  
The summer traders, he said, were a semi-nomadic folk from about the Sea of Rhun who traveled in close-knit families or clans in large wagons. Doubtless that was how Legolas had been transported, and he was thankful for that, as was Glorfindel, for the time would have come when Legolas could not ride.

The Sea of Rhun it was then. Glorfindel considered going to Lothlórien, and speaking to Galadriel, but he did not wish to have his actions drawn from him by her, though the temptation to look in the Mirror was a strong one. No, he decided, after weighing it in the balance. He trusted more to his own blood than the ambiguity of the Mirror; that it ran in his son and linked their _fëar._ Anyhow, the Anduin was almost impossible to cross in that region, save by boat, so he planned to ride north of the Gladden to an area of shoals where the river divided about a long, rocky islet. Anduin would be lower in the summer and easier to ford.

Any-one else might have viewed the journey with trepidation at the least; to Glorfindel it was simply something he must do, and he did not foresee failure or death, though he was prepared for delays and problems. One problem had begun sending out imperative, increasingly angry calls to him two days after his leaving Imladris. He shut his mind to them, just as he closed it to Vanimórë; in fact he had not spoken to Sauron's son since the night he pleasured Legolas. That episode had enraged Glorfindel to the extent that he found himself questioning _why_ the image, the emotions so angered him, then recalling more than he wished to of the lovely youth he had found in the forest. It was at that moment he had known he must leave. He would be damned to the Void before he permitted that bastard get of Sauron's to raise _his_ child.

The mountains were quiet, but preoccupied though Glorfindel was, he was always alert, too experienced to travel without caution. He lit no fires, but nevertheless one morning a sennight out of Imladris, he felt the stroke of awareness along his spine indicating he was being followed. He might have guessed it, although the fierce mind had not vouchsafed its intentions, and wisely; Glorfindel would have better hidden his trail.

Now, however, his pursuer was not even trying to be quiet. Glorfindel heard the snap of iron shod hoof on stone, light though the tread was. One horse, one rider, coming as swiftly as possible in the early light.

Glorfindel was almost relieved to have some-one to focus his anger on. Rhovadhros flicked his ears forward and nickered softly, and Glorfindel folded his arms.

They saw one another long before they met. The rider was dressed for travel, and his face was stern, but it so often was. Long braids of hair burned into colour under the early sun, red-bronze as autumn beech leaves, and the silver eyes were hard as steel.

“What in the Hells are you doing?” asked Tindómion as he dismounted. “And why are you closed to me?”

“There was no reason to involve you,” Glorfindel said levelly. “I thought you were in Lindon until the autumn.”

“There was no reason to remain there once my message was delivered to Círdan, and my mother wanted to come back. We returned to find you gone, and Elrond alternately cursing you and praying you would reconsider and return.”

“What did he tell you?” Glorfindel asked.

“That you got the youngest son of Thranduil pregnant,” Tindómion's eyes searched his face. “When you were there last year. That such a thing is rarer than snow on the summer solstice, that he was banished from his home, and has ended up with the one you called Vanimórë. Who is,” he ended, “Sauron's son. Elrond believes that, but do you?”

“Yes. It is true. He had power of some sort, I felt it in Mordor. Now I know why.” His smile was devoid of mirth. “And strangely enough, I do believe he will care for Legolas and my child.”

“Yes, so do I.”

“You do?” Glorfindel was surprised.

“I did not know him as well as you did, but I saw well enough that he loathed his father.” Tindómion looked toward the east. “I wonder who his mother was.”

“I do not know, but I am determined that my child will know his true father.”

“And Legolas?”

“He is a fertile male.”

Tindómion looked at him closely for a long moment, then said mildly enough: “What was he like?”

“Beautiful,” Glorfindel said with unstinting appreciation, his mind – and body – suddenly full with images of those enormous winter-blue eyes, the lips that tasted of apples and honey, the slender body that he had used and brought to ecstasy more than once. And yet, he had walked away and almost forgotten. Now, he wondered how that was possible.

“A shame you did not know whom he was, and the circumstances surrounding him,” Tindómion murmured, still watching him. “You could have brought him from Eryn Lasgalen to Imladris.”

“If I had known what he was, I would have.” Glorfindel shook his head impatiently. “Do not tell me that Elrond allowed you to come.”

“I am your friend, am I not? I think, under his protests, Elrond was rather glad I did come. They lacked force. In fact he – ”

“Well, you certainly do not. You do not give up.”  
It was astonishing how like his grandfather Tindómion was. Crown him with a mane of black hair instead of bronze, and Glorfindel might have been speaking to Fëanor, who also would have ignored his mental barrier. He felt a sudden warmth and reached out to embrace one who was indeed a friend.

“You are not telling me all, are you?” Tindómion said.

“No. I cannot,” Glorfindel admitted. “Not yet.” And then he wondered why. He felt no guilt at what he had done.

 _Dost thou not?_ Vanimórë's mind flashed across the leagues like an spear. _No. Nor does my father when he takes me._

From the other side of the roaring wall of fury, Tindómion was saying his name.

“What?” he snarled, and saw surprise and then reciprocal anger on the Fëanorian's face.

“What is the Hells is wrong now?” he snapped back.

 _Knowest thou why I can hear thee so very clear? It is much easier when a person has power, Glorfindel. Their thoughts burn like beacon fires. I know thine intentions, and it is true thou art linked to the child and no doubt could find him. But it may take thee a very long time, if I decide thou shouldst not._

 _Thou hast no right to keep my son from me !_

 _And thou hadst no right to take Legolas unwilling, **and feel no guilt !**_ Tindómion caught him by the shoulders, and Glorfindel shouted into the lambent morning:  
“I will _kill thee,_ Vanimórë Gorthaurion !”

“That,” Tindómion said angrily, “is what Elrond wants you to do.”

~~~

“There is something wrong, is there not?” Legolas asked.

“Nothing to concern you.” Tanout poured a goblet of milk, and Legolas drank. “Truly.” He looked at Gîlríon, naked but for a soft sheet, and smiled. “He seems to get bigger every time I see him.”

Legolas recognized the deflection, and accepted it.  
“He is,” he smiled. “Elf children grow a little differently to the children of Men.”  
Gîlríon's hair was thick now, a mop of bright golden rings.  
 _A tiny Glorfindel,_ he thought with the surge of guilt-shame-yearning that twisted within him each time he thought of this child's father, and what he had done.

“He is lucky to have you.”

“Lucky?” Legolas asked.

“Not all children are loved or wanted.”

“I do not understand how that can be.” Shyly he reached out to touch Tanout's arm. “Despite...” he felt the warmth in his cheeks. “Despite everything, I love my son.”

“Who could not?” Tanout said. “Surely his father would?”

“I hope he would.” Legolas gathered Gîlríon into his arms with a sudden protective rush of emotion. “But I do not think I will ever know.”

~~~

Dana settled her bulky frame down on the cushions that had seen better days about twenty years ago, and sipped wine fit for an Emperor. Vanimórë was extremely generous. It was one of the reasons why that traitor had served him for so long. What Annad had not seen was that his prince was quite willing to give people rope and watch while they fashioned it into a noose for themselves. She smiled privately. Of course, she would not have killed the man in that way, but she would have ensured he had come to her temple sooner or later, brought there by the silent, deadly women who served only her, not Vanimórë, and certainly no other god. Only her. The Mother had many faces. Not all were kind.

Dana thought in great themes.  
Dana _was_ a theme. It was good to wear the bodies of mortals to comprehend how chained they were to flesh and brief lives, how that affected their ability to see the whole, but she could never truly think like a Mortal did, fear as a Mortal or even an Elf feared, and she knew it. It was necessary that she should to gain understanding of them, for they were part of Arda, and thus part of her, but she could not feel as they felt.  
Vanimórë did not see the whole either, not yet; he too was chained, not by his slavery but by the steel walls of his hate. One day he would know that Sauron too was part of the theme. She knew he was here, what he had done and what he was thinking. He was far too close to his son. Vanimórë would sense him were he not preoccupied. And so she veiled Sauron from him, as she veiled herself from all save a few. Vanimórë would be enraged if he knew, because he was blind, but one day his eyes would be opened. He called her impossible, inscrutable, and it was true, but only because he did not understand.  
It was not the time, and there were matters too great even for her to to touch.

Nhidan went into the scullery. She heard the pour of water, and knew that he would be removing his facecloth, hot in this weather, and cooling himself.

“What thinks't thou of Vanimórë's offer to thee?” she asked, smiling.

He did not say anything, but she tasted the emotions that he emanated as if they were the wine on her tongue – and she laughed. It did not even surprise her when the back door opened without a knock to herald the arrival. And still she laughed, quite softly.

~~~

Legolas came out of sleep with a jerk. There was anger all around him, violent as fire. When Vanimórë's hands turned him, he started again, then pressed close. It was bright morning. Gîlríon had woken at dawn to be fed, and Legolas had slept after. It was already warm in the room, but Vanimórë was clad only in a short robe, and Legolas remembered the comfort of his arms as he drifted back into sleep.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“Glorfindel.”

“ _Glorfindel?_ ” Legolas both gasped and grasped at the word.

“He is angry. I wondered if thou wouldst feel him.”

“I did.” Legolas swallowed dryly. “Why?”

“Something I said to him.” The full mouth bent wryly, then it dipped to kiss his brow. “Wait.”

He rose, went to Gîlríon's cradle, was apparently satisfied the child slept on undisturbed, and poured two glasses of wine, bringing them to the bed. “He sleeps,” he reassured. “Drink.”

Legolas eyed the wine doubtfully. He was not yet used to it unwatered and usually drank light mead.

“It will do no harm this once.”

He swallowed, feeling soothe his mind, his ragged-edged emotions. Vanimórë, he realized was also tense; always hard, his muscles were locked into rigidity, anger buried deep in the sinews.

“What did he say?” he asked.

There was a moments hesitation, and Legolas said into it, “He said something of..me?”

“Not directly.”

Through the gentle fleece the wine laid on his mind, Legolas felt something fragile inside him curl inward. He drank again, a larger mouthful, and Vanimórë gently took the cup from him and set it aside.

“Little beauty,” he murmured. “He is not sorry for what he did to thee, but he does not like it that I pleasured thee.”

The fragile thing peeped out. It was not as bad as he had feared, and bad enough.  
“I did not think he would be sorry.”

“He will be. Shhh. He is not worth thy tears, although he is certainly worth my fists.”

Legolas closed his eyes and raised his head, through which wine fumes gently swirled.

“Please.” At Vanimórë's silence he whispered: “You do not want me either. I am sorry...” and pushed himself away.

“Lovely fool, how could I not?” He abruptly pulled Legolas' hands to his sex, and it was hard and full and hot. “I am flesh and blood, but I am not what thou needest.”

Legolas throat closed with fear and need. His hands closed about that rigid shaft, and he imagined it inside him. Shivers racked his body.

Vanimórë made a sound; anger, impatience, Legolas did not know, and suddenly swept him up in his arms and carried him into the antechamber, setting him down on the rugs. He strode back into the bedroom and returned with a phial of rose-oil.

“Close thine eyes, ” he murmured. “Imagine I am Glorfindel.”

Legolas was shivering more violently now. He let his lashes slam down over his eyes, and the loss of sight exacerbated every touch on his skin: the kiss, the tongue that delved into his mouth, the sweet-hot tug on his nipples that sent a heavy weight seeping into his loins, the sweep of hair over his own hardness, the lips that took him in, the oiled fingers that pushed into his passage so that he arched and started to beg.

The scent was not Glorfindel's, but it was familiar enough, male musk, water-sweet hair thick as poured cream in his hands. And then his opening was being nudged and opened by something huge and hard and heavy, and he cried out, every muscle freezing.  
His cries were supped by a warm mouth, his legs lifted to rest on broad shoulders, and he was filled. He burned from the inside out, thought he could feel his heart contracting about the invasion of his body as the engorged member withdrew, re-entered, slow, slick, stretching him so that he began to sob – and the sob shuddered into astonishment as that secret gland was touched.

Perhaps this was how he could undo some of the damage Glorfindel had wrought, although that excuse, Vanimórë knew, was simply a sop to his conscience. He wanted Legolas, but he would not have forced the youth, nor would he use him in some rivalrous game, though he was furious with Glorfindel's arrogance, his lack of empathy for what he had done. This was not the man he had known in Mordor, and Vanimórë wanted to rip the cold shell from him; Glorfindel was not cold any more than the sun was cold. But now there was only the desire, the need to give, to show Legolas what might have been, what could be. It was hard to rein in his need but imperative to take Legolas beyond fear, beyond any tension but the wonderful tension of sex. And he felt when Legolas was driven beyond that point, when he became soft and willing and hungry in his turn, and moved with him, his groans soaked in pain and pleasure both. He was so tight, fiery inside, and if Glorfindel had brought him to this pleading, wanton abandon, no wonder he had come back for more. The true wonder was that he had walked away.

Vanimórë's hand encircled Legolas' own erection, and worked him doubly, within and without, as blinding stars exploded through his body, and all thought sluiced into his groin, driving in, and in and _in._ His mind was unbarred wholly and deliberately, because, with Legolas writhing on him, under him, with himself buried to the root in that hot, narrow passage, he did not care what Glorfindel shared or felt.

Legolas was crying. The sun sparkling from the dust of perspiration that sleeked his flesh. Vanimórë picked him up and carried him to the bed, drank the seed from his own fingers, from Legolas' belly, and let him taste it through a long, hot kiss.

“Hells,” he swore. “Do not think I do not want thee.” And he drew Legolas, still panting, still half-sobbing, into his arms.  
“I do want thee. And _he_ wants thee.”

 _And I need thee in other ways, sweet prince; thy generosity, thy love, thy kindness are feast after famine. And Glorfindel needs thee also – and will come to know it._ ~

~~~


	10. ~ Chasms Of Darkness And Doubt ~

~ “Do you feel better now?” Tindómion asked with a deliberate tinge of dryness, and a quite involuntary tinge of the gratification that lay on and in him like hot silk.

After a moment Glorfindel said: “Thank you.”

Tindómion smiled over his crossed arms, lazily amused. It was enough, and all that was needed between them. They had known one another a long time. It happened sometimes, not often, for in many ways they were too similar. Glorfindel was nothing if not utterly dominant, which had been the point of contention between Tindómion and Gil-galad, two men so naturally preeminent that neither would submit to the other without engaging in what amounted to single combat, with the victor then claiming his prize. Only after, could Tindómion see how foolish that had been, that the secrecy imposed by the convoluted politics of Lindon had twisted both he and the high king. They built walls between them which had become mountains formed of doubt and pride. And so there were times, in the long mourning years after Gil-galad's death, when Tindómion welcomed hard use, a punishment dealt by some-one who understood why he needed it. There was no-one more skilled than Glorfindel in erotic games, but on occasion he too wanted sex to be a battle, as simple, as savage and as hard.

Had he been in Imladris, Tindómion would have relaxed in the languor of the aftermath, the soreness and bruises vivid reminders of the heights to which Glorfindel had taken them both. He would relive the raw lust, the cries and curses wrung from both of them, the headlong ascent to an orgasm that left him blind and breathless. But he was not in Imladris. The wild lands could never be called safe, and there were things he wanted to know, sex notwithstanding. He spared a moment to stare at the sunlit grass near his head, breathing the scent of it, luxuriating in the eddies of sex, the pain some part of him felt he deserved, but was nevertheless delicious. If he raised his eyes, he knew Glorfindel would be smiling too, with satiation, understanding and gratitude. Thus it was between them.  
Tindómion stretched, winced and rose carefully, walking to the stream, one of many that flowed from the Towers of Mist into Anduin. Too small to bathe in, he could nevertheless stand and wash. Glorfindel was likewise scooping handfuls of water, gazing east. Tindómion looked west. The horses grazed peacefully, and the morning was still. It would be hot later. He read the quiet of the air, then turned back to watch Glorfindel, who stepped from the water, shaking back wet coils of hair. What had Sauron's son said that had lashed him to a rage far beyond mere anger? Something had built in him then until Tindómion saw the blood-lust for sex and violence turn his eyes an unearthly blue.

Glorfindel, who had obviously taken his own measure of their surroundings, sat on the grass, drawing a comb through his hair, letting the strengthening sun dry him.

“Do you wish to talk of it now?” Tindómion joined him.

“Vanimórë.” Glorfindel did not look at him. “He threatened to take my son away – further away. And then he opened his mind while he made love to the Sinda. He can do that. I feel his sensations, his enjoyment...”

 _The Sinda?_  
“You are jealous, then?” Tindómion had never seen exhibit jealousy before. He took lovers, but did not love, or not as Tindómion understood love; that soul-consuming passion he had known for his dead king. And still, the _Sinda?_  
 _What is he not telling me?_

The celebrated gold-crowned head came about swiftly.  
“He is the bearer of my son !”

“Yes, and he is far from his home, from what _was_ his home, and does not know that you care a snap of the fingers for him or your son ! At least you do believe that Vanimórë will look after him.”

“Yes, I believe that !” Glorfindel came fluidly to his feet. “But he is taunting me with how _well_ he can look after him.”

“Elrond said that you felt the child's soul as it was born,” Tindómion said. “Did Vanimórë allow you to feel that, also?”

Glorfindel was silent a moment, then, far more quietly, “I would have felt my son's birth, but yes; he was there. He wanted me to feel it powerfully.”

“Was it done with malice?” For either it was cruelty, or Vanimórë had wanted him to know for quite different reasons.  
Tindómion thought back to a time that was still too raw to touch on, a pain that he carried like an arrowhead broken off in his body. Vanimórë had been knocked unconscious in the last melee on the slopes of Orodruin. There had been so many dead or injured that no-one had wondered why he had suffered no wound serious enough to account for it, though Glorfindel had said it was no doubt due to his mind-link with Sauron. He had been right, but it had been something far closer and stronger than a master-slave bond. Vanimórë would have felt when his father's spirit took flight. And yet, regardless of that relationship, when he was found, the sword still gripped in his hand had been black, his arms drenched in orc-gore to the elbows. He had been fighting _for the Alliance,_ trying to hack his way to Gil-galad who, in his madness to reach Sauron had outstripped his guard. After, he had warned of the One Ring, and of Sauron's return. For him to show Glorfindel the child's birth out of malice did not fit with the image of the man Tindómion remembered. Granted he had never held converse with him; he had been under Glorfindel's guard, but how can one judge another save by their actions? Vanimórë's actions spoke eloquently.

Tindómion pushed his hands into his wet hair and closed his eyes. How, after that bloody, grinding war had they come to Elf fighting Elf again? Was it the shadow that some said had followed the Noldor from Valinor? The Elves diminished year by year and some seemed to... _darken._ There was no other word. Tindómion had watched Glorfindel's glory become dangerous, overlying sunless chasms in his soul where black things grew. He knew the same darkness in himself, born of anguish, and hoped that Glorfindel's having fathered a child would let the light into those dark places, so that he might once again be the Elf-lord who had brought his shining into Gil-galad's court and lifted their hearts until the Second Age went out in a crescendo of death.  
They were all changed, but Tindómion recalled the moment Glorfindel had stepped through the doors of Gil-galad's Great Hall, the light falling through the stained-glass windows concentrating on him, so that he became a golden flame. He had not faded, but sometimes that fire burned dark. He spoke of the youth who had given him a son as _'a fertile male,'_ but there was nothing in his voice of care or affection. He was prepared to journey hundreds of leagues to find his son, and Tindómion would have done the same, but what was Legolas Thranduilion to him, this prince no-one seemed to want?

“He wanted me to know.” Glorfindel shook his head, scattering water. “No.” Reluctantly. “I do not believe it was with malice.”

“But for you to know that he makes love to Legolas is?”  
There was something strange in all this. Tindómion was one of the few people who knew of Legolas' elder brother, the one who had died so dreadfully. Elrond had told him privately, and said that it was not in the best interests of the newborn truce for it to be made public among the Imladrians. Tindómion could understand Thranduil's anguish, but not his decision to effectively banish Legolas from his society. Nor did he understand why the young prince had not told Glorfindel who he was at the outset. He started to braid back his hair.

“Legolas is not his,” Glorfindel said harshly.

“He is with some-one who wants him, and has looked after him. He could be dead, both he and your son.”

“How could I know he was such a rarity? How could any-one have known?”

Tindómion regarded him, and changed direction.  
“Are you going to kill Vanimórë Gorthaurion?”

“Why? Do you have an objection? Is it not the duty of any Elf?”

“No doubt, were he anything like his father.”

“He is a weapon,” Glorfindel said iron-hard. “And an unbelievably dangerous one. Elrond is right in that.”

“No-one hates Sauron more than I.” Tindómion rose, and gripped Glorfindel's shoulders. “I never had any hatred left for Thranduil and his people. I saw Gil-galad die. All my hate was long ago directed elsewhere. But you took Sauron's son as a lover in Mordor, and I assume you felt no evil in him. Would you not, were he like his father? He fought with us, and he is caring for the one who bore your son. I agree he is dangerous, but I am unsure if I could cold-bloodedly kill some-one who tried to save Gil-galad's life.”

“It would not be in cold blood if he tries to keep my son from me, I assure you.” Glorfindel seized a handful of Tindómion's hair. Little spikes of pain rose from his scalp, pleasurable and exciting. “If you are trying to make me angry again, you are succeeding.” He was smiling, that dangerous smile. A prelude, a warning.

“What,” Tindómion said against his lips. “if he gives you your son, and takes Legolas away?”

“He will not. He cannot. Even he must see the bond is too strong. My son needs the one who birthed him, whose soul is intertwined with his own. He needs _me,_ not Sauron's get !”

“And what if Legolas himself chooses to be with him? Elrond said he was well-nigh an outcast in Eryn Lasgalen and you, for some reason I cannot understand, played with him a while and then left him. Was that not unkind? Is he not very young for the games you enjoy?”

Glorfindel's eyes sparked blue fire.  
“I thought he was just a young horse-guard. What did it matter? You know how our warriors have been treated when they are captured. What would have happened to you with your blood, had the Silvans ever taken _you_ as a prisoner of war? I was alone, in not a little danger, and impotent.”

“Not with Legolas, apparently.” Tindómion was indeed trying to anger Glorfindel, not to provoke him into sex, but into unguarded speech. If he were angry enough...

“Not with him. And he did not speak of any-one to me. Hells, what harm some sport with the little beauty? He should not even have got with child ! No woman would have.”

...he might speak unguardedly.

  
And there it was.

His free hand clamped on Tindómion's buttocks, pulling him hard against a rigid, fresh erection.

“Legolas would never stay with him. Sauron's _son?_ ”

He turned his head toward the east, hurling a question like a killing dagger across the leagues.

“What do you mean Legolas should not have got with child?” Tindómion asked, soft as molten rock is soft.

~~~

Legolas slept, after. Vanimórë held him, soothed him, and had the satisfaction of sensing him slowly relax. He felt Glorfindel's anger-storm that followed, and was not displeased, but he did not want it to be the reaction of a man determined no-one should touch Legolas because of what he was: a male able to give birth to children. Legolas' life with him would be little better than slavery, and Vanimórë truly did not think the prince would survive it, not that sweet-natured creature who had never received the love he so needed. And no reason sufficed for that. No reason could ever suffice. It was self-defense on Thranduil's part, he knew that quite well. His mind could comprehend it, but his heart, the heart that needed to love, that dreamed of some-one who would love him despite what he was, could not accept it. He rose on upwelling anger, washed quickly and dressed. The day was advanced, but he had no engagements this morning.

When he opened the outer door to order food, he found Tanout outside. There was no real need for guards unless Legolas were alone, but Tanout had taken the duty upon himself, and Vanimórë both liked his initiative and the fondness that lay under the concern. On any other morning, the young man would have saluted, and inquired after Legolas and Gîlríon. This morning, his salute was as crisp as ever, but the dark eyes eyes did not waver from their scrutiny of the empty passageway. Vanimórë, reading him in an eyeblink, took him unceremoniously by the arm and drew him into the room.  
He had been expecting this, in fact. In Szrel Kain he had had to curtail his movements, and before leaving Sud Sicanna had warned Tanout that there would be less freedom than he was used to, less space, less time for relaxation. Taking Legolas under his guardianship had sequestered him doubly. It was not onerous; it was an absolute duty he would never have considered shirking, and Tanout had been drawn into it because Vanimórë knew full well the young man would do anything to please him, to spend more time with him than his normal duties would warrant.

The walls were thick enough, and the doors of heavy wood, but Tanout had excellent hearing.

“Stop it.” He ran his thumb over Tanout's warm cheek, and smiled. “Wouldst thou not welcome the chance to have him?”

“Sire, it is not my business.” Tanout's effort to sound aloof and uncaring would have fooled no-one. And of course he was right. Vanimórë's lovers were not his business, but in Sud Sicanna it was different. One knew of the seraglio and accepted it as having always been there.

“Oh, do not try to pretend I am a despot,” Vanimórë said. “This is hard for thee, and I understand it. I do care for thy feelings.”

It was always problematic when a warrior became one of his lovers. Unless they were genuinely skilled soldiers, favoritism was invariably suspected. And so Vanimórë ensured they _were_ skilled, that they could hold their own in the barracks, as well as in combat. He discouraged and punished any bullying, both within his seraglio and the army, but he could not control jealousy. Any man or woman who shared his bed came to know it carried perils both annoying and occasionally deadly.

“Thou hast been enough in Legolas' company to know what he needs,” he said. “And would give it to him. He would see that if he believed himself worth anything at all.”

“Sire...!” Tanout glanced toward the inner door, and lowered his voice. “He is your guest. I could not, and he is an Elf.” He paused in obvious confusion, for Vanimórë was half-Elven himself. “Have I seemed forward?”

“Thou hast not been forward. Legolas needs love, and it would take a heart and mind of stone to be unmoved by him. Of course I desire him, but I cannot keep him.” He rested his hands on Tanout's shoulders. “Taking him back to Sud Sicanna is something I would only do in the last resort. Imagine what it would be like for him, outliving every man and woman save me. The only way to keep him safe from the jealousy he would incur, would be to virtually imprison him and his son. He is an Elf. It is different for me. I was not raised among Elves. But Legolas? No. And there are other reasons, and other things afoot now. I will need to speak to thee later.”

Interest sparked in Tanout's eyes. “Of course Sire, you can trust me.” He paused and added provocatively, because he was young enough and beautiful enough to use that tool well, “Even if I have lost your favor, still you can trust me.”

“Fool.” Vanimórë tightened his grasp and pulled the young man into a sudden kiss, to which Tanout responded heatedly. After several heartbeats, Vanimórë drew back, watching the shapely lips flush with blood.  
“Legolas is truly not mine to touch, but I could not resist, and if it helps him in any way at all, I do not regret it. And rest assured I would know if I could not trust thee.” He swept his fingers through Tanout's loose curls of dark hair and tugged, hard enough to drive home the threat sheathed in his smile. The young man arched back his neck, and his mouth curved invitingly. Vanimórë kissed him again, out of true pleasure, released him and laughed, then sobered.

“I know what they have been saying,” he said quietly. “It is unavoidable. With or without my _favor_ thy position is awkward. I told thee how it would be, and here it is more so since the men are confined to this house. They are bored and on-edge. But I think that will change soon. Now, go to the kitchens and ask for food and drink, Legolas will be waking shortly. Bring any messages to me.”

Being a ruler, he thought, was like sitting on a tiny island with waves constantly rushing to one's feet: people who wanted favors, lucrative postings, advancement. If they could gain those things through sex, they had no compunction in doing so. It had been so even in Angband and Barad-dûr, with the caveat being that it was unwise to believe that Melkor or Sauron could be influenced or swayed. Power-plays existed wherever there was power, from the ice-villages of the white north, to the ancient aloof empire of far Cathaia. Rarely, if ever, did any-one desire the man who wielded the power. Tanout did, which in the light of his personal history, was not strange. Of course he had ambitions, but Vanimórë had planted and fostered them himself, recognizing talent when he saw it. Few men were born warriors. Tanout was one of them. Vanimórë would see the former orphan as general of his army one day, and Tanout would learn the isolation that power imposed, would become a power in Sud Sicanna himself, and the recipient of bribes and beauty, taking his own place in the intricate dance of politics. And he would grow old, were he not killed, and he would die.  
There was the pain. How many lovers and friends had Vanimórë seen die? He could remember all of them with perfect clarity, and had discovered long ago that there was no way of avoiding grief, not if one had a heart, which it seemed he still did.

“What happens to the souls of Men when they die?” he had asked Dana once, and she had smiled, running the tips of her long nails over his chest.

“The Elves call them guests,” she murmured. “One day thou wilt know. There _is_ more for them. Greater. But it is not wrong to grieve.”

And he did grieve.

The knock at the door signaled the arrival of the food and drink. He took the tray, the letters heavy with seals, and closed the door.  
It was then that Glorfindel's question struck him.

 _No,_ he said. _No. He does not know who I am. He has not been well enough for me to present him with that piece of information._

Mockery. Anger. Challenge. Vanimórë shut his mind, and carried the tray into the bedroom. Setting it down, he watched Legolas stir, stretch, and then gasp as either his body, mind or both reminded him of sex. He turned his head apprehensively toward Vanimórë and closed his eyes.

“Did I hurt thee?”

A tiny shake of the head was the only answer, but Legolas was holding himself stiff as some-one preparing to be flogged. Vanimórë crossed to the bed and gathered him up, feeling the tension all through him.

“No, tell me. I should have had more control !”

The pale head dropped onto his shoulder. He could not understand the words whispered into it, or untangle the thoughts twisting through Legolas mind.

“Forgive me.” He cursed himself silently. Who was he to berate Glorfindel if he had caused Legolas pain, even without meaning to?

“....me?”

“What?”

Wet lashes brushed his throat. “Are you ashamed of me?” It was a fragmented whisper.

“Ashamed of thee? No ! Why? What for?” There was no reply. He stared toward the north, eyes narrowed in thought.

“Glorfindel made thee feel shame. For wanting him.”

“He said it was my place. And I _was_ ashamed. I never told any-one...”

“It is _not_ thy place unless that is thy wish.” Vanimórë said. “And thou wert too ashamed and afraid to disclose Glorfindel's presence, because he gave thee pleasure. He dominated thee, and the feeling was good, was it not?”

Legolas looked up then, blue eyes filled with a complex guilt and yearning.  
“Yes. I...do not know what kind of person I am. You reminded me of him, and I...” He shook his head in a little bewildered gesture. “I do not want you to think me a weakling.”

“Because thou didst succumb so beautifully?” Vanimórë smiled. “I do not think thee weak. I am only concerned I hurt thee. There was some pain was there not?”

Legolas looked down. “You made me forget it.” And a blush climbed to his hairline.

“I am glad I did. I wanted thee. I _desired_ thee.” His voice dropped as he placed Legolas' hand on his groin. “I would have thee now, I would have thee until thou couldst not think of anything but me, until I had to carry thee to the baths.” He felt Legolas melt with the words, his own sex stirring. “I would _love_ thee. But in this world our lives cannot run together. I can see what rouses thee. Glorfindel saw it too. There is no shame in it. It is not uncommon, and not something crooked in thee either. Believe me; I have seen it many times. But thou shouldst not have learned it that way.”

He rose and brought a cup of tisane. Legolas drank and ate silently, looking small and lost in the wide bed. He did not understand, and probably would not for a long time, unless he were taught with passion and patience. He thought he was twisted because through violence Glorfindel had showed him shattering pleasure, and probably been delighted with Legolas' submission. Yes, Vanimórë admitted to himself, there was something incredibly arousing in Legolas wanton surrender, in mastering his body, knowing one had control over it, seeing and feeling the response. To some-one like Glorfindel he would be irresistible. He was irresistible to Vanimórë, but the great irony (and there was a black humor somewhere in that) was that Vanimórë had more compunction, and would never use Legolas as a pleasure toy.  
Gîlríon woke with a little sound, and Vanimórë picked him up and placed him in Legolas arms. His heart, long inured to the knowledge he would never father children, ached at the image they presented.

“What will happen to us?” Legolas asked over Gîlríon's golden curls.

Vanimórë kissed his brow. “I will see thee happy, sweeting. I have vowed it. And I will never abandon thee. I know what thou needest and _whom._ Now it is a matter of making him want thee not as a breeder, but as a lover.”  
 _In another world than this, I would claim thee. I would have the right to love thee. But those worlds are dreams, and I cannot so endanger thee. And Glorfindel has marked thee as his forever, whether he knows it or not. And something in thee does recognize that, beauty._

“Glorfindel...” Legolas took a long, shaking breath, that same expression of fear and guilt and longing darkening his eyes. “He would never...He took me and l-left me.”

“Glorfindel,” Vanimórë said with asperity directed at the distant, enraged Elf-lord. “Does not know what in Arda he wants. The years have made him cruel, Legolas, and a different man to the one I knew. But I know what he _needs._ It remains to be seen if he deserves thee.” He flicked Legolas' cheek gently, slipped an arm around his shoulders. “Do not worry about anything yet. When thou hast fed Gîl, we will go to the baths. I will watch him for thee. Then we will sit outside.”

 _Damn it. Glorfindel is right. I should tell him who I am, but what in the Hells will that knowledge do to him?_ ~

~~~


	11. ~ The Glass Begins To Shatter ~

~ His hands swept down the oil-glossed skin, pleased to feel the muscles gone smooth and easy. From the cradle nearby, Gîlríon looked up at them calmly. He seemed to know when Legolas was upset and became fretful, but now he mirrored the prince's mood. They had taken to bringing Gîl to the baths, setting him carefully aside from the water as they washed. Vanimórë would have trusted Tanout to watch over the child, but the young warrior admitted he knew next to nothing about caring for babies, and Legolas without saying anything, had made it clear he would not leave Gîl alone with any-one save Hathar, whom he had come to trust without knowing why.

Gîl was growing quickly. It was obvious to Vanimórë, who had seen many Mortal children, that his development was faster than theirs in this early time. When he was not asleep, he was bright and curious to the extent that Vanimórë found himself being careful of what he said in Gîl's presence, rather to his amusement. With an eye to the future he had, after conferring with Legolas, asked Ekesha to have clothes made in various sizes: warm leggings, tunics, tiny, supple boots. He did not know where they would be in even a few weeks, and wanted to be prepared for travel with a swift-growing child. The housekeeper had hinted that one of her nieces was a fine seamstress, and today she was out collecting the last order. Ekesha was reliable, and as good as any-one could be at quenching gossip among the servants. And her niece's work had indeed been fine. Legolas had been awed when he saw the clothes. Vanimórë wanted to dress him and his son as princes, and paid for the best materials. Ekesha and Neala were generously rewarded, and the housekeeper remarked privately that she had profited more in her brief service to Vanimórë than ever she had in Prince Djen's. Her master, enjoying the hospitality and entertainments of the palace, had sent for her, as she had known he would, but she could only tell him what every-one knew, refusing to be drawn into speculation, and his dismissal had lacked thanks, coin, and Vanimórë's brilliant smile.

Legolas' hair was swept over his shoulder, falling to the floor. The wavering light of the baths infused it with silvery gleams as it dried, fine and thick and strong. The Silvan Elves used their hair to string their bows, after all. Vanimórë lifted his hands, listening to Legolas' gentle breathing, and simply looked for a moment, at his body, the curve of that slender back ending in taut little buttocks. Half-hard already, blood pounded his shaft to aching pain as he remembered what it felt like to be deep between them. The prince was slight compared to him, but exquisite and, under the debilitating uncertainty, he was astonishingly sensuous. Vanimórë cupped his hands over the perfect curve of the prince's hind for a moment, then smiled – _Go gently, and not before the child_ – and dropped a kiss at the base of his spine, just at the point where, on his own, the Red Eye was stamped. He had been extremely careful not to let Legolas see that brand, in the baths he kept his back hidden, in bed he lay on it, or held Legolas against his chest. The prince knew he had been a slave in Angband, but the symbol of Angband had been the Iron Crown, not the Red Eye. Legolas was young but he would know what the Eye depicted, and that would lead to questions Vanimórë did not want to answer. Glorfindel's hurled challenge had struck in the gold. Vanimórë had not told Legolas who he was both through fear of his reaction, and rejection, but Eru knew what good would come of revealing his parentage. He reached back and touched the mark. It was always warmer than the rest of his skin, and sometimes throbbed as if his father sought to remind him of his presence in the world. He needed no reminders.

He dressed, pushing his still aroused length into his breeches with a wince, and walked to where Legolas cradled his head on his folded arms.  
“How feelest thou?”

“Wonderful,” Legolas murmured. “Thank-you.”

“It was my pleasure. When thou art ready, we will go outside.”

“Thank-you,” Legolas said again, through a blush, putting out his hand hesitantly. “For...this morning.” Long lashes dropped like feathery fans over his eyes. “For...”

Vanimórë regarded him, taking the slim fingers in his own.  
“Thou hast no notion of thy power,” he said, and it was true. It was a power that lay both in his fragile beauty, and in how it affected those stronger. Vanimórë could see, as Glorfindel had seen, how Legolas instinctively responded to strength, how his submission was not solely rooted in fear, but in desire. He wanted, _needed_ to be dominated in the bedchamber. Whether Glorfindel had awoken that facet of Legolas' nature or created it, was immaterial now. The fact was, that the prince's body would always bend to mastery, and to everything that implied. Vanimórë had known chieftains and warriors who enjoyed submitting, women who could only be roused by wholly dominating a man. Sexuality had no rules. Violent sex had only ever roused him to murderous fury, but then he had not been given pleasure with it, not in Angband. Sauron knew how to do the trick if he wanted, and in some ways that was as hard as rape. By that, Vanimórë could well understand how sex, pain and passion had bewildered Legolas, made him believe he was twisted and weak. It was untrue, but it did indicate that he would never be sexually fulfilled save through those esoteric games of domination and submission, and Vanimórë, because he knew brutality, was more inclined to protect one already hurt than play those games. He did not want to hear Legolas sob, plead with him to stop. The prince was so young. It would claw the years back to the marrow, and Vanimórë would see _himself_ writhing under Melkor in Angband's throne hall, begging for help that did not come. It disturbed him that, for a moment, he could comprehend how Melkor had felt with such power over some-one weaker.  
He thrust the shadowy empathy aside with disgust. Legolas was not a slave, not a whore. His banishment notwithstanding, he was an Elf prince, and should be trained as one, learning all the skills and arts his station required. Vanimórë gauged how long it would take his men to travel to the north, for Thranduil to read the message he had taken such dour pleasure in penning. He had written it as one might launch an arrow, wanting it to strike the Elven-king to the heart. Thranduil was not Sauron. There must be some place within him that would bleed when he heard of his youngest son! But there was no way Thranduil could respond. Vanimórë had told his soldiers to give the letter to a Mortal clan who traded with the Elves, paying well to see it passed into Thranduil's hands. He did not want his soldiers to enter the forest, not with that burden, and had instructed them to head south to Burh Alge, the seat of Cadmon of Rhovannion. If they encountered trouble, or heard no word from him by mid autumn, they were to make their way home through Ithilien and Gondor. They had been well provisioned, and carried his seal on a document that should grant them safe passage. Barring illness or accident, he expected to see them again.

“I want thee _now._ ” He heard his voice come low and dark, felt Legolas' shiver of fear and anticipation. “I would teach thee how truly desirable thou art. But thy worth does not lie only in that, dear prince.”

“Neither does yours.”  
Vanimórë was surprised into a smile. It felt like rue and self-mockery on his mouth.  
“Come,” he said. “Dress, and let us take Gîl outside.”  
 _Not yet. I cannot tell him who I am yet. But there_ is something he needs to know. Glorfindel is coming. I can take Legolas and his child anywhere, but if Glorfindel has enough determination – and he does – his soul-bond to Gîl will lead him to us, sooner or later.

~~~

  
This was an unwelcome visitation, Dhölkan thought sourly, as a servant poured two deep bowls of Red Harvest, and stood back. The visitor, who had circumvented protocol and arrived without an appointment, was a large man in red robes. His hands, sporting heavy rings, seized the bowl and drained it. Dhölkan raised an inner eyebrow, but motioned for it to be refilled. Priests were rumored to enjoy all the luxuries – and excesses – of life, and this was certainly true in Szrel Kain, although the last few hundred years had seen the temples' influence waning. Now, so long after Kaal's* fall, it was, in the main, the superstitious masses who offered sacrifices and what coin they could afford. The nobles paid lip-service, with an eye to the possibility that, as long prophesied, their god would return, and sent gifts on Holy Days. People like Dhölkan, while believing the Dark Gods had existed, did not foresee a return, and certainly hoped there would not be one. It was said that the wealth of half a world had flowed into Mordor, and Dhölkan would rather wealth flow into _his_ city. But still the temples existed, though the priests, unable to rely on tithes and fear-gild, had turned their attention to business, thus enabling them to pursue the pleasures they considered the perquisites of their positions. Kaltish** was doing well by the look of him, but the temples would not be satisfied until they wielded the power they had when Kaal, their living god walked the earth again. Or so they said. Dhölkan wondered what they would actually do if their god did return.

“I have been troubled by dreams.” Kaltish settled back on the cushions. “Since the one they call the Dark Prince came here.”

“Hardly surprising, given what they say about him,” Dhölkan took a small sip of wine.

“Ah yes, the Eyes of Sauron.” The priest's lips twisted. “Is every-one a fool? Sud Sicanna is the center of the Danaic heresy. Would one who served the Great Lord permit that? Why has he not been to the temple offering gold and sacrifice?”

He had a point. The other visiting dignitaries had at least shown their faces or the contents of their coffers, some more than others. Yet Dhölkan had found himself believing that Vanimórë knew – had known – the dark god, and remembered those unnatural purple eyes shining ember-red.

“You would have to ask the prince himself.” He savored the image for a moment.

Kaltish ignored this. “The Solstice approaches.”  
Oh yes, the damned Solstice. One had to be grateful it only occurred twice a year. Apparently it demanded _special_ sacrifices, special meaning extremely young or noble blood, or both. While it was easy enough to acquire unwanted children, and occasionally overambitious nobles, it was not a time of celebration for any-one but the priests. The smoke went up for days, thick and reeking, and the mood in the city was always restless. Kaltish was obviously hoping for a prodigious spilling of blood this year, with offerings from the princes attending the council.  
“I have been given a dream,” he announced with a portentousness that Dhölkan found annoying. “of a child. A golden child. He is here.” He raised his head as if he could smell it.

 _I wager you dream of children, you perverted bastard._  
Dhölkan looked at the slender young man, ash-grey robes almost transparent, who stood, eyes down and hands clasped, behind Kaltish. In the twenty-nine years since his elevation to High Priest, Dhölkan had never known Kaltish without a pretty catamite at his side. And this one was very fair, even to one who had always preferred women. His hair was cropped so that it framed his face in sleek, curving wings, and thick lashes shaded his high cheekbones. When he glanced up, as if feeling the prince's eyes on him, his eyes were large, uptilted, honey-gold. He had the kind of luscious mouth a younger Dhölkan had appreciated on his concubines, and the refined, deceptively delicate look of the Mhadi tribe. Probably some byblow given to the temple as a child for a handful of coppers. There was a small white jewel studding one nostril and gold hoops pierced his ears. When Kaltish decorated his catamites they were especially favored, but this one was of the age when his master's interests turned to younger flesh, and it was no secret what happened to those who were discarded. They entered the temple solely to serve the appetites of the priests, and were considered hallowed by their usage. Once they grew too old, they were offered to Kaal in a solemn, bloody ceremony, and their hearts burned before the high altar. From the sick look in his eyes, this catamite knew well enough that he would make one of the many Solstice sacrifices. How some hapless boy could attain holiness through sexual slavery Dhölkan could not imagine, but he did not interfere with the temples if they did not interfere with him, and Kaltish's uninvited presence here was offensive. All priests seemed to carry the stink of burned flesh about them, for all their robes of imported – and very expensive – silk.

“A dream,” Dhölkan repeated.

“You have heard the rumors of a _Shendi_ child born under the protection of the prince of Sud Sicanna?” Kaltish asked intently.

“Well, that is no secret.”

“Born to a man?”

“If you were to ask me,” Dhölkan retained his composure by drawing on decades of practice. “I would say the Dark Prince is _Shendi_ himself. It is true he has a woman with him, one which no-one is permitted to see save his own guards. But if he has a _Shendi_ concubine, one would see why he would keep her apart. Surely your information is...skewed? A child born to a man? Listen to yourself. And you believe this because of a dream?”  
That fool Annad. He must have said something before coming to the palace, perhaps wet his throat at a crowded inn, and been unable to refrain from gossiping. There had been a great deal of jealousy there, and he had doubtless mistaken a beautiful _Shendi_ woman for a male after one brief glimpse. It must have been Annad. It was not one of his personal guards, or if it was he would have their tongue out when he discovered which one. Osulf had no reason to spread such news.

“Do not mock the dreams sent by Kaal. It all weaves together.” The High Priest clicked his fingers for more wine. Light flared from the gems set in his rings. “It must be investigated. Our god demands it.”

“Does he? How often does Kaal send you dreams? You will not,” Dhölkan said flatly, “ _investigate_ a ruling prince, a guest in my city.”

“Be very careful,” Kaltish advised, his voice going to gravel. “You know not what you are dealing with. Did you know that the old altar was used some few nights ago?”

Dhölkan concealed fresh surprise. The old altar was where Osulf had lead Annad, and presumably parted from him. It had been a safe enough place to leave the traitor's horses and supplies. Even now, no-one went there, believing it cursed, and the priests preferred the comfort of their temple. Osulf had no orders to kill the man, but neither was Dhölkan particularly concerned about Annad's fate. The money had been nothing in the scheme of things. One thousand had been perhaps worth a tenth of Vanimórë's gifts to Cadmon of Rhovannion, and Dhölkan had gambled that he would recoup it swiftly enough, which he had. Vanimórë knew the dance of politics very well. But it seemed likely, in the face of this news, that Osulf had decided to kill Annad and appropriate the coin for himself. That was worrying, for it meant the assassin was working on his own. Or he simply wanted the coin. Yes, Dhölkan thought, most things came down to money, but he was displeased. He took a mouthful of wine.

“How do you know this?”

A sneer curved the high priest's lips. “How could you understand how it feels to have Kaal move in your dreams? I know.”

“Another dream?” Dhölkan murmured dryly.

Kaltish leaned forward, and for the first time, Dhölkan heard something in his voice that was unusual. Under the smug superiority, the man was actually disturbed, sweat stains had spread from under his arms, darkening the silk to crimson.  
“A waking dream, given to me when I performed the rites. A wolf howled, and a man screamed. I saw the altar run with blood, and there was a fire in my heart. A presence. I sent guards to the altar. There was not much left of the man, they said. Half a skull, some rib bones, and this, on the one finger that was left.” He gestured to his catamite, who handed him something. Dhölkan had seen it before, and on Annad's hand. A ring engraved with two palm trees whose trunks became curved swords, crossing at the tips. He swore silently. Where in the name of the dark was Osulf? Now, he doubted the assassin had killed Annad. The manner of death and the leaving of a recognizable device spoke against it. Unless it had been self defense and wild animals had devoured much of the body. Osulf had no real need to hide it, not in that place.

“It is familiar, is it not?”

“It is,” he admitted, seeing that Kaltish knew before asking the question. Anyhow, Vanimórë's officers all wore such a ring. It was no secret. “But what does this have to do with me and Szrel Kain?”

“You cannot see? One of the Dark Prince's men was sacrificed at the old place, and a child has been born in his household, a _special_ child. Where do all the signs point?”

“If you think I will countenance your taking a child from the Prince of Sud Sicanna, the wine has gone straight to your head.” Dhölkan snapped his bowl down on the table. “Here, and at _this_ time?”

Kaltish was sweating. He waved impatiently and the catamite carefully dabbed his brow.  
“You do not understand,” he hissed. “This is a _vision from our god._ He is close, for the first time in five hundred years, he is _moving._ ”

He was afraid. He believed this nonsense, this dream brought on by rich food and wine and whatever drugs they were using in the temple to convince themselves they were attuned to the dark gods. This was when religion was dangerous, when people actually believed it, when it was more than age-old rituals performed of habit. Dhölkan had considered Kaltish a greedy hedonist with a shrewd eye for business, one who used his position to further his ambitions. Having the man suddenly turn fanatic was, especially now, not something he could afford. He pressed his fingertips together.  
“The man was attacked by wolves? At this time of year?”  
Wild boar were more likely, but they would devour every trace of a body, and so close to the city? The beasts were intelligent and wary, and the nobles of Szrel Kain keen hunters. Only the harshest winters would drive boar near human habitation.

“Not by a wolf, but the Great Lord himself. Do I need to remind you that he could take the shape of a wolf?” In fact he did, because if Dhölkan had ever known it, he had long forgotten. “And he left this ring as a sign that he wants this child.” Kaltish licked his lips and drew the wine toward them again. His hands tremored, and a trickle of it spilled from the corner of his mouth to be blotted by his robes. “Kaal has awoken, and I am his servant.”

He was terrified and exultant both, Dhölkan saw, assailed by a finger of doubt pressing cold upon his forehead that had nothing to do with any god. Vanimórë was far from his home, but he had supporters among other visiting dignitaries, and was preeminent among the Haradhan rulers. If Kaltish caused an uproar in the city, mass hysteria among the people, which would be easy enough, especially close to the Solstice, the council could turn into something far different and bloodier. And if – which he doubted – Vanimórë was killed, there would be a concerted race south by the Haradhan princes eager to seize the pearl that was Sud Sicanna. Either way, the council would fall apart.

Kaltish pushed the attentive catamite away with a thrust of one elbow.  
“I am having the midwife questioned,” he said. “And Prince Djen's housekeeper. He is your guest here, I understand? I am surprised you did not do the same. They will talk. One way or another.”

“Djen has summoned his woman, yes. She knows nothing. Vanimórë permits no-one to see his concubine save his soldiers, and they do not leave the house.”

“Over cautious, would you not say? Unless he is guarding something extremely rare and valuable.”

“Prince Vanimórë's business with his concubines is not my concern. The council _is._ If you question Djen's housekeeper too roughly, you may find the Dark Prince knocking on your doors.”

“But she is not his servant. She is Djen's, and a woman of Szrel Kain.” Rising to his feet, Kaltish brushed his robes down over the swell of his belly. “And there are greater matters than the council. We must prepare for the coming of our god.”

The mad bastard, raged Dhölkan, when the man had left. He crossed to his private room, thinking hard. Dreams indeed. The temple had at least as many spies as the palace, but _something_ had undoubtedly rattled the high priest. Dhölkan would send some-one out to the old altar himself, Osulf preferably, who was an alien, and had evinced no qualms at treading on supposedly haunted ground. Where was he? And what could be done before Kaltish lashed his priests and acolytes into religious frenzy and destabilized the council? Dhölkan sat down, pulled his writing materials toward him, for this note was not going to be dictated through any scribe. Did the priest have the faintest idea of what would happen if he tried to take a child from the Dark Prince of Sud Sicanna?

As the entrance to the spyhole slid back, he stiffened, then snapped, betraying his tension: “Where have you been?”

“You do not need to know.” Osulf slid silently into the room.

“No, perhaps I do not. I especially do not want to know what happened to the traitor. I have already sent to tell Vanimórë that I relieved Annad of his stolen goods and would return them. He has gifted them to me as a gesture of goodwill. He knows Annad is dead. He told Drishnai he felt the man die.”

“Yes, I expect he would.”

Dhölkan tapped the quill against the tray. Osulf seemed subtly changed; there was a brightness to his features, as if ecstasy or excitement had stamped itself through his skin and into his bones. Perhaps he had been pleasuring himself these last days, though such things had never appeared to interest him before, but then he had probably never had that much coin on hand.

“Did you hear everything?”

A faint smile lifted one side of Osulf's mouth. It looked strangely familiar, and Dhölkan thought, without knowing why, of Vanimórë.  
“Everything. Priests, really, they are a disgrace to the ones they purport to serve, are they not? I will take that note to the prince of Sud Sicanna.”

“Why? Are you thinking of taking a new employer?”

“I doubt he has need of a killer. There is no need,” he went on softly. “To send me to the old altar to verify Kaltish's dream.”

Fear was a rare emotion for Dhölkan. He had ruled Szrel Kain for a long time, surviving several attempts on his life. He was a survivor. Healthy fear was sensible, one should fear poison, hidden knives and ambition, but chill in his gut now was formless, vague; the hollowness of the unknown.

Osulf smiled and held out his hand.

“I do agree it would be better if Vanimórë were gone. Your concern is likely to be generously rewarded.”

Nodding, Dhölkan finished the brief note and sealed it. When he looked up, Osulf was watching him. His eyes were strange, darker, but not through dilation of the pupils, rather as if some color had moved into the flint-grey, the faintest tinge of blue or lavender. Drugs, he told himself. Thievery and now narcotics. Osulf had outlived his usefulness.

 _So have you,_ said a voice straight into his mind.

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Kaal. Sauron's name, specific to the cities about the Sea of Rhun, therefore  
> ** Kaltish, a name taken by all the high priests of that region, means the Hands of Kaal (Sauron)


	12. ~ What Lies Behind The Eyes? ~

Tindómion's eyes caught the light and dazzled, their silver breaking into fiery sparks. For a moment they were Fëanor's eyes, the peerless Silmarilli that had held their maker's soul-flame.

Glorfindel could lie, of course. It did not cross his mind. He felt instead a sense of outrage at the accusation in Tindómion's face, at his next words.  
“Why should he not have got pregnant?” He drew back, and then snarled through bared white teeth, “ _What did you do that makes you say that?_ ”

A kiss. But that was not how it had begun. He had decided he would have Legolas from first seeing him, beautiful and slender and unaware in the sunlight.

 _“Beauty such as yours should be used, should be owned... I will show you what you were meant for, little beauty.”_ *

And that was what he had believed – still believed, that he had a right to take what he wanted. He had given the youth ecstasy because it had pleased him to feel the response, and because no, he had not wanted to rape. But he had already been inside Legolas' body when the disgust of his act struck him.

And something else struck him then. Tindómion's back-handed slap. Glorfindel had not even seen him move, absorbed for a moment in the memory. White hot anger and pain blanked his sight, he tugged hard on the thick handful of hair and punched Tindómion across the jaw. Who staggered back, collected himself and said, like another slap.

“You forced him?” And then, unbelief breaking through his rage. “You are my _mother's friend._ ” They began to circle, looking for the next opening. “Tell me you did not force that youngster. _Tell me !_ ”

And Glorfindel cried, arrogantly, into that arrogant face, “Yes, I took him by force ! And so?”

If this had been the training grounds of Imladris, almost every-one would have come to watch. This was the ancient bare-handed fighting all Elves had learned before the Great Journey, and refined to an art over the Ages. They were naked and needed no weapons, for their bodies were as adept at inflicting injury or death as a sword. Blows were were taken, dodged, defensive moves turned into aggressive. They were both as hard as steel, both furious as fire, and through it their words cracked, as powerful as their kicks.

“You raped him, and forgot him ! Now you would find him to rape again?”

“I gave him pleasure ! He would have died had it been rape !”

“Ask my mother about that ! Perhaps Legolas lived for the child, as my mother lived to bear me !”

Bruises had already blossomed on their skin. Wet-tangled manes of hair clung in whorls to their heated flesh.

“Perhaps he did, but that child is mine ! And who are you to judge me? You were not there !”

“You told me you forced him ! What in the Hells _are_ you?”

Another flurry of blows, then Tindómion lunged and turned the action into a spin on one foot, surprising Glorfindel for a moment. The Fëanorion sprinted for his pack, swept up his sword and drew it from its sheath. Glorfindel came to a halt right on the point. His skin split under the steel, wept a thin red line.

“I should push this into your heart,” Tindómion whispered, staring into his eyes.

“Then do it,” Glorfindel said, voice flat, heart wild. “Do it. Follow thy father and be kinslayer in deed as well as by blood.”

Tindómion's arm jerked infinitesimally. It was enough. Glorfindel slammed the flat of the blade aside with his hand, and swept the other's legs out from under him, going down atop him with his fingers clamped around Tindómion's wrist, digging into the nerves until the grip relaxed. Glorfindel hurled the sword aside.

“I saw Amarvreg abused by Silvan warriors that day,” he hissed, straddling Tindómion tightly. “I could do nought without giving myself away, and I had to think of our other prisoners, of Imladris, the _war._ Do you know how that felt?”

“And raping Legolas was your revenge? A youth who had hurt no-one and could not defend himself? And you returned from there with no stain on your conscience, no shadow on your soul. How _dare_ you !”

“Damn your Fëanorion tongue ! I was enraged, yes, and he was so sweet, so warm, so virginal and I had to have him. I had to.” His loins ached to think of it. “And he told no-one.”

 _He was crippled by the thought of his weakness, allowing thee to take him._ Vanimórë's words. _He had never been close enough to his father to trust him._

“Neither would I have !”

“You know nothing about it !”

“And what do _you_ know about it?” Tindómion demanded. “No. Leave me. Do not touch me. There is blackness all over thee ! ”

 _Since when didst thou become an orc, Lord Glorfindel?_

“He came for me. I pleasured him !”

“You lie !”

Glorfindel slapped the scornful face. “I have never lied to you ! Yes, I forced him, through anger, and then I gave him pleasure, and he _wanted_ it. He needed it.”

“He must have been terrified of you.” Tindómion's full lips curled in derision.

Tears in the sunlight on a face pale as hoarfrost. Legolas had been waiting for death. It was then Glorfindel had realized what crime he was about to commit. Had already committed, in truth.  
Inside him something savage growled and turned it's teeth inward. He cursed furiously.  
“He wanted me. You think I have not that skill? You think I do not know when I give a lover pleasure?”

 _Go on, congratulate thyself on thine expertise in the arts of the bedchamber, Golden One._

Tindomion's eyes blazed silver into his own, opaque as mirrors now, and as cold. Rage had vanished, leaving the ice of contempt.  
“What makes us different from orcs, Glorfindel? Take yourself from me. I do not want your hands on me, your skin against mine. You are no better than my father taking my mother on the blooded grass of Sirion. Worse, because you _knew what you were doing !_ ”

The thing inside Glorfindel, a twisted miscreature of rage and unacknowledged guilt and unending sadness, roared as that dagger pierced its vitals. He flinched as Tindómion had at the word _kinslayer,_ and sprang to his feet. The Fëanorion rose, turning his back, every line of him a denial. _I do not know you. I do not recognize you._ Even as Glorfindel moved to bring him down again, he thought of their conversation before he had ridden to Eryn Lasgalen. Tindómion had said he would take the mission. Glorfindel was the captain of the Imladrian army. There was too much risk.  
“No, Istelion*,” he said. That flagrant bronze head was too infamous, and he looked what he was: a Noldo warrior.

“And you do not?” Tindómion raised his brows.

“I am fair at least, as are many of the Silvans and those of Lothlórien who joined Thranduil.”

“For the love of Eru !” Tindómion exclaimed, thrusting a hand into Glorfindel's hair and pulling. “ _My_ hair? Who has _this_ It would take an Avari out of the lost east not to know you ! You will never fool a Greenwood patrol.”

“I have no intention of running into a patrol. No. Not you. My father did not attack Doriath,” Glorfindel said seriously. “And _I_ give the orders to our army. The warriors are _my_ responsibility. And that includes you. If I miscarry, you will take command. I have spoken to Elrond.”

“If you miscarry, I will come and get you myself,” Tindómion vowed.

But Glorfindel had returned scatheless. Tindómion, as a Lieutenant, had chosen to expand on his orders by taking a small, willing company across the mountains and Anduin in the hope of meeting him. And Glorfindel had said nothing, thought nothing of those two delightful encounters in the forest, save that both had been a risk, but then the whole mission had been a risk.

The memories flashed through him like light as he tripped Tindómion and brought him face down. He heard the air thump sharply from the Fëanorion's lungs, and smacked his forehead against the earth. They had been friends from the first. He had known this man's father and grandfather, saw them both in him so strongly it was a constant pain and comfort; something that remained of the Elder Days when so much was lost. To have Tindómion look at him thus, speak to him thus over his treatment of a Silvan Elf was beyond enduring.

“Do you think I could not please him?” He snarled. “How dare _you?_ You, who would kill your own father could you find him?”

He sheathed himself so violently that Tindómions bite of air became a indrawn hiss of pain, and then, through his struggles for breath he began to swear persistently, viciously in Sindarin, in Quenya, in Westron. Glorfindel took him harder, hitting the gland within him, and still Tindómion cursed him to the Void until every muscles went rigid and then broke into shuddering release. As Glorfindel knew he would.  
He closed his eyes, let his breathing steady, then withdrew himself, sitting back. He thought suddenly of how easily he had defeated Legolas' attempts to free himself, how, that second time, he had lain shaking, crying hopelessly, and the only effect it had had was to make him want the youth more...

 _“He must have been terrified of you.”_

But he had not been ungentle then, once he had made Legolas beg to be taken, ignoring the tears, the expression in his eyes...

Tindómion's expression, as he turned over, was as far from that look as could be imagined. No tears, no admittance of pain. A glare like a white-hot spearpoint.

“Are you leaving?” Glorfindel asked him, meeting stare for stare.

White seed was spattered on Tindómion's hard belly. He sat up, ran his fingers through it, then in a sudden snake-swift movement, slapped Glorfindel across the face.  
“No.” He came to his feet, still smooth and powerful after their fight, after two bouts of savage sex. “Legolas cannot stay with Sauron's son, that is obvious. But Eru help him if his only other option is _you !_ ” With a lilt of bronze hair he walked to the stream. Glorfindel slammed a fist into the turf. He could not ask why Tindómion even cared. He was a child of rape himself.  
Rape.

“You do not understand.” He felt a great emptiness open like a pit in his stomach, and did not understand it. “He wants to be owned. And he is mine. Did I not force you? Did I not give _you_ pleasure?”

“You _fool !_ ” Tindómion hurled at him. “You cannot _rape_ me ! I enjoy it ! But I am not a youth and an innocent stranger who strayed into the path of Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower ! I am Fëanorion, and I _know_ you. Or I thought I did. What are you, Glorfindel? _What are you?_ ”

~~~

  
He let the water dry on his face, closing his eyes to savor the coolness of it.  
There was a small disc of polished bronze hung on the wall, and he stared into it, into his eyes, then stretched his stooped body, rotating the muscles of his shoulders, still gazing at his unfamiliar face. Of course it was unfamiliar. He did not remember anything before She came.

There was a time before Dana, and a time after her, and the former was befogged. Sometimes, like fish jumping out of black water, images would come to him, only to vanish again into the depths before his mind could seize on them. And that was a blessing, for he had a very strong feeling he did not want to remember. He suspected that he had been both physically and mentally damaged before the Mother healed him. There had been no shock, no disbelief, when she revealed herself, only a great sense of comfort and a strange release. There had been pain, fear, and she had taken it away. She said that after her business in the city was concluded, she would be gone, for she had a world to walk in many guises, and her own truest place, where she had opened her eyes as the Mother, in the earthwomb far to the south. He could not stay here alone, she told him, as if there were no room for discussion, and there was something in her eyes of pity and calculation both. Once, he would not have cared what happened to him, or not had the faculty that enabled him to care.

Then had come Vanimórë's offer. He found himself thinking often of that one, and his feelings upon first seeing the Dark Prince. The Mother had evoked no fear in him, Vanimórë did. Fear, and another emotion he could find no name for, that tasted of the things he did not want to know, disturbed those memory-fish, so that they flicked sharp, scarlet fins. Dana was in his mind, gentling, until he was able to look at that dangerous, vivid beauty as from behind a pair of sheltering arms. He could hold himself still in the man's presence, and become Hathar's mute shadow. Indeed, he did not know what else to be.  
It was not thus with the other, the youth with the lovely face and the wounded blue eyes, the male Elf round with child. There could only be sympathy, and the desire to protect that he saw so strongly in Vanimórë. . After they returned to the south quarter, Dana explained what Legolas was, and Nhidan nodded, accepting, for how could he deny it? He trusted Dana. She had taken away his suffering, made his memories inaccessible, though he sensed them swarming under the deep water, and sometimes they leaped free, leaving droplets of red on the skin of his consciousness before plunging back into darkness.

He saw the city he had known all his life (and could not remember) as if through new eyes. It was crowded, noisy, pungent, the divide between the wealthy and the throngs of poor vast and unbridgeable. Dana lived in a house with earth floors and warped doors chewed by rats. Hathar had spent most of the coin she earned as a midwife on cheap wine. The blankets and pallets were worn and dirty, human waste went into buckets and emptied into open gutters which eventually deposited the sewage into the great sea. Water was drawn from wells. Children played among filth, swift as rats and as trustworthy, neighbours walked in and out of the house casually, and kept their own doors open. At night, women with reddened lips and cold eyes patrolled the lanes and byways, willing to lead a man into the shadows for a few copper coins. Hathar was part of it, liked, even respected, drink or no. What else did the poor have to cushion their existence? She was a skilled birth-woman. And there was her son, Nhidan the Marked one. The poor were superstitious. He could go where he pleased and not be accosted. No-one dared to touch him lest the curse be transferred to them or their children.

The front door opened. A woman's voice said urgently: “Hathar! Temple guards at the head of the street. They asked where you lived! They are coming!”

“Why would the temple be interested in Hathar?” Her slur was assumed, Nhidan knew. He had never seen her intoxicated.

“What have you done?” There was a sharp edge of terror in a question, that raised the fine hairs on the back of Nhidan's neck “It is that prince, is it not, the one they say is a demon!”

“Demon!” Dana laughed, mock-drunk and jeering. “A man is a man. Rich, poor or _Shendi._ He is not niggardly with his coin or his wine, that I will say!” There came the sound of noisy drinking.

 _Thou must go to Vanimórë now._ Her voice fell clear and resonant into Nhidan's mind. _They will take me to the temple. They will not touch thee, and there is nothing thou canst do._

His rebuttal was instant, outraged. The temple. The memory-fish startled, jumped, showered him with red-black. He heard himself moan, and reached out a hand for the gutting knife that lay on the stone shelf. He did not like that knife, the sharpness of it, the easy potential for death in the thin blade. A curtain of blood seeped down over his eyes. His breath came short.  
There had been an execution not long ago. A murderer of women, Dana told him, the act an addiction like wine or poppy. She had sensed him, made him careless, allowing the city-guard to catch him. It was a secular matter, thus the man had been executed publicly before baying crowds. That night, Nhidan woke from crimson dreams.  
Now, as he held the knife, felt its haft smooth and easy in his hand, dread opened black petals in his soul. He could hear, because the ever-present noises of the street had dropped to uncanny silence, the tramp of feet.

 _I can kill with this..._

And he knew that he could. That he had killed.

“Hathar!” her neighbor exclaimed, then cursed and there came the sound of the door banging shut behind her departure.

 _Go._ And he felt power in the word. _I shall speak to Vanimórë myself, but he has time, a little time to leave the city. Dhölkan is dead. There will be some confusion._

Nhidan stepped into the room, gazing at her, an old fat woman in a gown stained around the hem, and saw a nimbus about her, the lush black glory of Dana, the Mother.

 _The high priest has dreamed of Legolas' child, believes it was sent by the dark gods. And the solstice approaches. Such blood as Gîlríon bears, and such uniqueness as Legolas' possesses, would be a very powerful offering._

The child? They would sacrifice the child, and the youth? His hand tightened on the knife. The black flowers bloomed, and smelled of grief.

 _Thinkst thou Vanimórë would permit that? Go. Now. We will meet again. I am She. I cannot die, but Legolas and his child can. Go._  
The last word echoed and re-echoed, became a force that impelled him back into the scullery, through the creaking back door and through the tiny yard, dusty under the sun, where a few chickens scratched. Behind it, the rotting back walls of the next street raised toothless faces to the sun. There was an alley between, narrow shadowed and damp even in this season. Nhidan tucked back the facecloth, pushed the knife through his rope girdle and plunged into it.

  
~~~

  
“The midwife who serves the Dark Prince, is it not?”

Dana heaved herself from the cushions. There were eight guards lead by a thin faced man with narrow eyes that swallowed what little light there was.

“I am,” she hiccuped, and added, putting a salting of fear into her voice. “I want no trouble...”

The man ignored her, gesturing to the others.  
“Bring her.”

 

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Glorfindel's words to Legolas in Ethuil'waew.


	13. ~ Ribbons Of Dark And Light ~

~ At the end of the alley, Sauron watched as the Marked one ran. It seemed one way or another, Vanimórë would be warned. But he still had his own warning to deliver. He had hoped to reach the midwife before the temple guards, but had lingered too long, dealing with Dhölkan.

Sauron had spent the last few days considering. He needed the babe and the young Elf, if Annad's words had been true, and even were they not, Elven blood was strong. The traitor had believed what he said, but Sauron had lived among Elves, and knew the men were as beautiful as the women. A young male Elf might indeed look female to Annad.  
There were a very few on Middle-earth with enough soul-fire to bring him back to full strength. Ironically, his son was one of them. But Sauron was still forging his finest weapon, and had no intention of turning it on himself in his weakened state. If Sauron were close enough, he could draw on Vanimórë's own power through their blood-bond, but that was so very dangerous unless he was absolutely sure he could conceal his identity. And he could not be sure, not yet. He needed more blood, and there was little time. Silently, methodically, he cursed. The child...why could he not sense the child's soul? He had felt his son's approach to Szrel Kain like a darkly burning comet, but was that only because of their kinship? Indeed, he had placed himself in the city when the rumors of the council were first noised abroad, and Vanimórë's name was spoken. It was the closest they had been for a long time, and Vanimórë seemed oblivious. Perhaps time had lulled him, although Sauron doubted his son was ever lulled, and had stopped himself exploring that too-intelligent mind. Sauron was not yet ready to confront Vanimórë directly, for he knew exactly how far his son would go to protect those he cared for. That was not something Sauron cared to put to the test.  
And now, Szrel Kain had served its purpose, as had Dhölkan, who had never, until the very end, guessed that the stranger out of the north had tampered with his acute mind, or who the so-called assassin really was. He had been Osulf, the killer from the North. Every-one knew of him.

Silently, Sauron laughed, for he certainly killed, but rarely in human shape. He seeded the story of Osulf's fame in the minds of those he passed; merchants, soldiers, husbandmen, beggars and nobles, leaving his name trailing across their consciousness like a ribbon. He had visited the other cities about the sea, and made himself visible, and he _had_ come out of the north, choosing the form of a young goat-herd whose blood had been strong with courage when he faced the great wolf. Sauron shaped his spirit, his powers to that body, and begun the long journey south from the barren places whence his soul had fled. Slowly, patiently, he had brought back _being,_ first in wolf-shape, then as a man.

Still smiling, he followed Nhidan, hearing as he did so, the screams as the midwife was dragged from her hovel. Under the raucous cries there was deathly silence, people barred behind their doors.  
Of course she would talk. She would say whatever they wanted her to in the end, but confessions under torture were untrustworthy. Sauron should have visited her himself, for it was hard as yet to strain the boiling broth of minds in this place for one, and as yet he needed to be close, as he had been with Annad, Dhölkan and the high priest. Kaltish presided over one ceremony every seven days, and those bringing acceptable offerings were permitted into the temple. Some stayed to watch the sacrifice, and breathe in the holy smoke. Sauron remained, but there was no power he could use. The rites were garbled and none there prayed for his return with either passion or belief, droning words learned by rote while their minds turned on other matters. The high priest's was filled with thoughts of good wine, food, the accumulation of wealth, perverted dalliance with his catamite and the mental fondling of his replacement. Priests, leave them for any length of time and they forgot to believe, to _fear._ Sauron had planted the dreams and visions into the man's mind easily as pressing a finger into wet clay, partly because it would be useful, and not a little through sheer disgust.  
 _Be careful of what gods you call on, Kaltish._  
It was pathetic, this farce that should have held so much power. He dwelled on the image of his son sword-dancing down the temple hall in Barad-dûr, between flaming fire-bowls on huge plinths, and a double row of pillars to which the sacrifices were chained. Vanimórë's hatred was almost a power in itself as he spun, his blades flicking out to open the throats of the men and women with lethal precision. Naked, streaked with blood, and splendid he would come to the end, where Sauron stood under the statue of Melkor he himself had carved. As the sacrifices died, Vanimórë disrobed him, and gave himself as another sacrifice, the most powerful and pleasurable of them all. _That_ was power, the temple was engorged with it, the very stones soaked, straining with the weight. Sauron hardened with memory.

No word had yet come from the palace of Dhölkan's death, and it would not for some time, for when the prince of Szrel Kain closed himself in his private room none dared disturb him. It might not be until late evening that any-one grew curious enough to knock on the inner door. The killing had been to gain power of course, and also to prevent the man making his life complicated by sending assassins after him; and it was not merely a matter of blood. Dhölkan had been a strong man in his way; though old, he was clever and tough as oak. But the greatest power, and the true delight had been his fear when he realized who was about to take his life, the realization that the god he had dismissed was upon him. It was euphoric, and as Dhölkan had sensibly made the room soundproof with cork, there had been a little time to savor his terror and pain to the full.

After, Sauron had carefully unsealed the letter, added his own footnote and resealed it, before leaving the way he had come, and making his way toward the south quarter. The streets were quieter as he followed the direction the Marked one had gone. He kept the tall, stooped figure in sight, ignoring the sideways looks from the people he passed. This was not something they wanted to get involved in.

  
~~~

  
“...and you get that one heartbeat to realize what has happened, even as you fall...”

“into the latrine pit,” Vanimórë ended. “Yes, I did ensure the roof would give if any-one trod on it.”

Legolas laughed. He felt – if he had to choose a word it would be _content._ Sex, sleep, food, the bath and the massage Vanimórë had given him, all combined to lay him upon a plateau of calm. It was the hottest part of the day. The garden was loud with the buzz of cicadas, so much louder than the crickets and grasshoppers Legolas was used to hearing in the Greenwood. Above his head, the leaves of the tree flared motionless fans at the westering sun. Gîlríon lay beside in the shade, blue eyes dreamy, on the borders of sleep.

Legolas smiled shyly at Tanout, glanced, even more shyly at Vanimórë.  
“Why do you train your soldiers in that way? It is rather like the training we...they practice in the forest.”

“Because I do not want them to be just soldiers, but warriors in every sense of the word,” Vanimórë said. “I set that course to make them think how to get from one place to another, over different obstacles. Most people fail with the latrine pit. Or rather fall. They see it as a step, not a trap. It is at the end of their officer training, they are tired and a little smug.”

“ _Smug,_ Sire?” Tanout exclaimed. “I protest I was not. And luckily I was not much hurt, although I needed two baths just to feel clean.”

Vanimórë lay propped on one arm. He had told Tanout to come informally, though the young man still carried a long dagger on a wrist-sheath. His tension had uncoiled a little since the morning. If anything he was warmer to Legolas even than previously, perhaps because he was no longer worried about overstepping any boundaries. Legolas responded, because he would _always_ respond to even mild affection, but Vanimórë was not concerned that Tanout would alarm or importune him.

“I would like to teach thee, Legolas.”

“Me, a warrior?” The prince's smile was self-depreciating.

“Didst thou have no training at all?”

“I can shoot...a little.”

“I saw thy kin in battle,” Vanimórë said. “They were extraordinarily skilled and brave, simply vulnerable. Mordor's uruks wear heavy battle armor, and use horn bows. Sauron's front-line allies also. He always sends them in first and last. Light armor defeated thy folk, Legolas, nothing else.”

“I can use a ...sling,” Legolas offered, looking up as if prepared for scorn at such a rustic weapon set against Vanimórë's lethal sabers and the soldiers equally dangerous scimitars.

“Can you?” Tanout asked, looking interested. “So can I.”

“It is one of the events in our yearly games in Sud Sicanna,” Vanimórë told Legolas. “It is not a weapon to be taken lightly. Tanout?”

The young warrior was already striding toward the house. Legolas glanced after him and then back to Vanimórë, who reached out and touched his cheek.  
“Do not so underestimate thyself,” he murmured, feeling the smooth flesh warm under his hand. Useless to say it, yet it had to be said, and repeated. Often.

There was a sound that made them both look up then. Vanimórë had been expecting the _clip_ of horse's hooves on stone, but not the fluent Haradhic curses that chased them, or the enthusiastic entrance of a shaggy-coated, but very well-groomed little mare, who went straight over the flowerbeds and lawn to reach Legolas.

“Lainiell !” he exclaimed, throwing his arms around her neck, while Gîl, fully alert, watched.

A soldier came running up. “I am sorry, Sire, she pulled away suddenly, and I am not used to guiding a horse through a house.”

“Did she break anything?” Vanimórë asked, smiling, and the man looked relieved.  
“No, Sire. She is very light-footed. I think she realized who she was coming to see.”

“I think so. My thanks, Elar, I will call thee when it is time to take her back.”  
The man saluted and left, and Vanimórë went on: “I am sorry, my dear. I know thou hast missed her.”  
He had told Legolas that the mare was well looked after, but that he could not take the prince to the stables. There was too much activity there, too many servants coming and going.

“You brought her through the house, my Lord?” Legolas' face was alight as he picked up Gîl and introduced him. A little hand went out at once to touch the mare's nose.

“I had to. There is no door from the stables to the garden.”

“Thank you!”

“She has been bored, I know, but I stabled her next to Seran, my stallion. I do believe he has a very soft spot for her. And he is an evil tempered bastard. He likes no-one, even me.”

“That is true,” Tanout said, arriving with his sling in one hand and a bag of pellets in the other. “And _she_ will not be ridden either.”

Legolas looked a question.

“She will walk beside me around the yard,” the young man explained. “But before we tightened security, my Lord asked me to ride her out for some proper exercise. She refused to move, and when _I_ refused to move, she made it plain she did not want me on her back.”

“She threw you?”

“Eventually.” Tanout grinned. “When we had reached an understanding, she permitted me to lead her out, but she is like that mad bastard – excuse me Sire – Seran. I think she will let no-one mount her but her owner.”

“Lainiell,” Legolas chided, but his lips were turned up. “And you are too fat. You need to run.” The mare snorted enthusiastically, bobbing her head.

“So do you,” Vanimórë said softly. “And it will be soon.”

Tanout, with a look at him, held out the sling and stones. “Is this what you use, Legolas?”

“Yes, this is very like.” Handing Gîl to Vanimórë, he ran his fingers down the braid to the leather pouch.

“Would you show me?”

“Here? Now?”

“You do not have to, but I would like to see what you think of the sling, in comparison to the ones your people use.”  
Vanimórë nodded his thanks at this approach, and gestured down the garden to a garish urn whose only saving grace was the flowers that spilled over its lip.

“It is very similar,” Legolas said nervously. “We use hemp, and river stones. These are...?” He weighed them.

“Lead,” Tanout said.

“No rivers in Sud Sicanna,” Vanimórë added as he saw Legolas fit the stone with a deep breath, and take a few steps forward.

“I have not done this since...for some time,” he was already apologizing, all huge eyes and uncertainty.

“No matter,” Tanout said easily. “I have not either; there is nowhere to practice here. We use clay targets in the arena, at home. How does the weight feel?”

“Heavier than a stone.”  
Legolas began to twirl the sling idly, holding the release cord between forefinger and thumb, positioning his body at a slight angle to the urn. For a moment, Vanimórë thought that was all he would do, paralyzed by the thought of failure, and was about to say something, to save him having to even try, but then with one quick, instinctive movement Legolas rotated the sling upward, his whole body going into the throw. Even as the stone was in motion, his left hand dropped another and the cradle caught it, the cord flicking back into his right hand, to come up and release again. He was very, very fast. The stones struck the urn almost simultaneously, and it shattered spilling earth and flowers. Gîl gave a squeak, his eyes wide, but not alarmed. Legolas turned back, and at the look on his face, Vanimórë, rested Gîl in one arm and hugged him with the other, while Tanout clapped him on the back.

“Thank you. That truly was an ugly piece.”

Legolas gasped into his chest.

“I would not wager against you in the games !”

They started to laugh. There were tears in Legolas' eyes. He was overwhelmed by the mild praise, by the attention and blushing hotly, but still smiling as he handed the sling back.

“You do not think enough of yourself,” Tanout said quietly, gripping his arm for a moment, at which Legolas dropped his eyes and returned to his seat under the tree.

“I suppose I shall have to replace it,” Vanimórë mused. “With something rather more tasteful.” Legolas peeped up and dimples sparked, vulnerable and delicious. “Perhaps thou couldst sketch me the knives thy people use. I did see them on Dagorlad, but thou art far more familiar with them.”

This was too hard. Legolas was as relaxed today as Vanimórë had ever seen him. The long massage had partly been for that purpose. And now he was pleased because he had been able to show some ability before others. It was not a mood Vanimórë wanted to break.  
What in the Hells was he going to say? _“Oh, by the bye, rather an oversight; I forgot to tell thee that Glorfindel has left Imladris to look for thee.”_

“I could do that.” It went to Vanimórë's heart to see how Legolas glowed when any-one took an interest in him. “Do you...really think I would be able to fight? Truly? I am not very strong.”

“Thou art of warrior blood, and very swift. But let me tell thee why the long knives suit thy folk better than a greatsword.” He lifted his sword harness from the grass. It was never far from him, but contrary to popular belief, Tanout and Legolas knew he did not actually sleep with his swords.

“I chose these for my weapons long ago.” He drew the slim steel. “Although I was trained with a greatsword, and can use it. The Men of the East used these. Many still do. They are slim and fast, like thee, and these suit them rather than the greatswords or longswords. But there is an art to this, Legolas. We do not use them because we cannot wield a longer, heavier blade, but with two blades of matched length, thou canst not use a shield, of course.” He began to turn slowly, moving the sabers in lazy sweeps. “Twin swords _become_ the shield. The warrior who fights with these creates a shield of death.” He span faster. The sunlight on the metal flashed, flickered, burned into solid silver light, and Legolas watched as Vanimórë vanished behind a wall of rotating, killing steel. No-one could get near him, he saw, unless they were as fast, as skilled as he, and who was? Vanimórë gradually slowed and stopped, crossing the blades over his breast, then gestured with one.

“Come, hold them.”

Legolas rose, drawn by grace and deadliness. He heard Tanout's exhalation of pent breath, his throaty: “I love to see that.” And knew what he meant, Exactly what he meant. Had Glorfindel not ensnared him with that same sense of effortless, dangerous power?

Vanimórë glinted a smile at the young man, and reversed the swords, letting Legolas curl his fingers about the hilts.

“They are not very heavy,” he said in surprise.

“Heavier than Silvan knives?”

“My brother Celeirdúr showed me his. Yes, they are, but not by very much.”

“Thou wilt use them well.” He laid an arm over Legolas shoulders.

 _if I had the time..._ And there were more complications. Legolas watched him when he thought Vanimórë was looking. If he ever looked at Glorfindel in that way, it would be more than the golden-haired bastard deserved. It was not love, but it was a kind of adoration fostered by dependence, and Vanimórë, even knowing that he could not keep Legolas, basked in it. He could not warn the prince not to feel this way, it would only reinforce his belief he was unwanted, and he was only reaching out with need to some-one who cared. Vanimórë more than cared, but none of this was about him.

“In fact, there is something I have to say to the both of thee,” he began, and as they looked at him, a sound of clashing arms shattered the indrawn breath of the day.

“Sire.” One of the guards came from the house. “It is the Marked one. He is alone.”

“Alone? Bring him carefully.” Vanimórë sent out a thought to Dana, and felt only her stillness. He took the swords, gathered himself, and saw with his peripheral vision Tanout glide into a defensive position before Legolas, who sensitive to the sudden tension in the air, picked up Gîlríon, more puzzled than wary.

In a crowded street far from the old quarter, Ekesha shrieked as she was dragged away by temple guards.

Nhidan broke from the grip of the two soldiers in a move that left them winded, and ran into the gardens. Vanimórë saw something flat and white in one cloth-wrapped hand, a wax seal, small and dark. A moaning noise came from behind the facecloth, as if the man searched for words he could not speak. His free hand spread, groped and curled frustratedly on air. There was blood on his fingers.  
Vanimórë strode toward him.  
“Too much drama. Too much violence. Too much _trained_ violence.” The first blade glided to the man's throat, flicking the letter to the ground in its passing, the second went low, to the groin. Both paused a breath away from the flesh.

“One move and thou art dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I mentioned this at the end of Lords Of The Light: Chapter 47 ~ Solstice Fires.


	14. ~ The Mist ~

  
The cloth sopped blood as he pressed his hand tight against his chest, staining his palm red, and the rill of ice-hot pain pulled a hiss through his lips. If he had not swayed back, the dagger would have ripped up through his gut. If the man had not been content to strike out then push him away, running on...

Grimacing, he tore the material, examining the cut. The dagger had missed his belly, slicing upward over his breastbone. Not deep, he discovered, even now the blood was coming more sluggishly. The knife had been slim, its point needle-sharp. Resting his head back against the wall, he closed his eyes for a moment, until the murmur of voices roused him. A pleasure-moth and her client, haggling over the price. Some things continued unabated. They did not see him until they were close, and stopped, looking at him at first without interest, and then, as their eyes adjusted to the dimness and he moved, they turned quickly away.

~~~

“Strip him.”

At Vanimórë's words, with steel at his throat and groin, the man who was not Nhidan froze then, as the guards advanced on him, though he did not move, his breathing came harder.

_Dana?_

She could not be slain, not by any power now on Arda, and had not truly died even at Melkor's hands, but if she inhabited the form of a mortal and was supposed to die, she had to be seen to die or reveal she was more than human.

_Lady !_

She could hear him always, but she was not answering.

_Oh, damn thee !_

One of his men wrenched back the impostor's tight hood.

~~~

This was the mob. She had seen it before, in other cities through five hundred years. Its soil was fear, its rain hate, and its crop violence. The Black Temples were hated save by those who served them, but if one person was publicly taken, the onlookers did not object, instead pointing the eyes of the priests away from themselves by denouncing the victim. As the guards passed from the old quarter where Hathar was known, into other streets, the populace began to gather, to stare, hiss and then, as always, came the cries, _Witch ! whore !_ the signs to ward the Eye from them, spitting. Only the presence of the impassive soldiers prevented stones being thrown.

Dana let herself flow into the mob-mind, finding what she expected to, the underlying terror-become-hate, but here and there, like cold iron, were those who were planted in the crowd by the temple, to whisper of magic, to chant, to work like poison in the wound of fear. Vanimórë, his distinctive adamantine mental imprint limned with a very human bewilderment, was demanding she answer him, and his sheer exasperation made her secretly smile. He was a very important game piece, but still just a game piece, even as Sauron was.

Reaching out, she caressed another mind, wounded, shrouded. No, she decided, not yet. Just a gentle loosening _here,_ and _there._ Vanimórë would have enough to do in leaving the city with Legolas and Gîlríon, and she had every confidence in his ability to do so, but it was not the time to complicate matters further.

And then there was Sauron, who wanted to drive Vanimórë into the open. He would succeed, but Vanimórë was no coney to be flushed from cover and hunted down. He was a predator. Dana was not afraid for him, and could not allow herself to pity him.

Was she afraid for herself? With Sauron so near, and gradually rebuilding his power, she could not use her own. He would sense it. She could only die. Certainly she knew pain, and had no desire to experience it. Melkor had ripped her apart, abut she had allowed it. He was treading the path decreed, and her death had served only to imprint her more deeply throughout Arda, the Earth birthing her, taking her back to enrich it, become it again. Pain, she had discovered, was necessary to her, allowing her to draw closer to her children, but in that empathy lay danger.

_Discord and everything the proceeds from it are wrought into Eä. Without them, what are the Children but witless ornaments that know nothing? Who would know true joy without sorrow? And what worth is love unless it be given freely?_

Not her words, but as she went among the Children, she came to understand them, Men, Elves, Dwarves. Yet it was difficult to let fate unfurl and do nought, and so at times – some very few times – she did reach out and pluck a harp-note of the Music.

The streets widened. A soldier tugged on the rope which bound her hands as the round dome of the temple muscled against the skyline.  
Dana supposed she should scream again.  
And so she did.

~~~

_Never let any-one see thy face, until thou art far from the city,_ she had said.

It was too late.

The Dark Prince was staring at him as if struck a stunning blow to the head, but his swords did not waver for an instant. His eyes were wide, and the fair Elf's blue ones no less so. They had not expected to see what they saw. Whatever it was they saw.

_Trust Vanimórë,_ Dana had exhorted him. _Trust me. And look with love on Legolas and Gîlríon._

Whom could not? he had wondered.

Legolas.

The child, Gîlríon.

He had to speak, _now._ Words swelled and coiled in his throat like serpents. A cord seemed to snap in his mind, his soul, then they erupted like a stream of hot wine through his lips, kissing and burning them as they passed. They sang deep into his veins, potent, intoxicating, sweeping away something within him as a dam giving way before flood-water.

“She was taken to the temple. The high priest has dreamed of the child...an offering to the Dark. She said you must take them and go now. Dhölkan is dead.”

Behind him, Vanimórë felt Legolas' amazement, heard the swift, indrawn breath, and over the man's shoulder, he saw the guards expressions of incomprehension. The language was alien to them, but not to Legolas, and not to him. Had this been another time or place, had the situation not been made so imminently dangerous by those words, shock would have driven into his bones and frozen him rigid. The hot garden vanished under a memory: the inimical beauty of Sauron's face. 

_I want thee to see to my prisoner. I think thou wilt be surprised when I tell thee whom he is._

_Bloody Hells..._

Even the man's name... _Nhid_ meant hidden or concealed in the Mhadi tongue, but he had simply taken it to mean that Hathar's Marked son had to live his life in hiding, which was true enough. Dana's sidelong smile gleamed in his mind as the cloth that covered the man's face and hair fell away.

He was fearfully beautiful. The mouth was a sensuous sin. Black brows rose like gull-wings over eyes that no Man had ever owned. They were silver, and blank as a dimmed mirror. There was no recognition in them at all.

_What in the Hells...?_

Vanimórë pushed his senses into the mind behind the eyes, and was surrounded by whirling images: Dana, the stews of the south quarter, Hathar's squalid house, himself, Legolas, Gîlríon. Those were the skin on the man's consciousness, but under it roiled his old life, his true life, and bubbles of it were beginning to break through the fragile barrier, bursting in eructations of pain and grief.

_What didst thou do to him?_ he hurled at Dana. _For Eru's sake ! Lady !_

And this time, she answered.

_I found him,_ she said simply. _More than a little mad. I brought him with me and made him forget, for a while. When Hathar died, her son went into the water after her. Both of them drowned. It was easy enough to disguise another tall man as Nhidan, and for both of us to take their places for a while._

Yes, he was tall. His height had been disguised by a stoop, a hunch forward of straight shoulders, now discarded so that he was eye to eye with Vanimórë. He had forgotten to be cautious.

_Where was he? Where didst thou find him? Why didst thou not tell me?_

_In the skirts of the Mountains of Shadow. He was trying to return to Mordor._ Catlike amusement. _Should I have told thee? Whyfor? Thou knowest now._

_Oh, Hells._ Vanimórë cursed inwardly. _Oh, Lady. And thou?_

_Hathar will die, no doubt._

_Then kill her thyself !_

_Dear boy, art thou telling thy Mother what to do?_ she asked flirtatiously. _Take them all and go, Vanimórë. Thy duty is to them. The temple will demand Legolas and his child as sacrifice for the Solstice rites, and the mob is eager now. Rumors are seeping out. There will be a great deal of confusion when they learn that Dhölkan has been killed. Get out of here. Now._

She withdrew as decisively as closing herself behind an iron door.

Vanimórë swore again, and looked into the eyes that did not remember him, but had remembered Mordor. He gestured to the guards.

“That is enough. I do know this man. Arm, pack light, and await my orders. Tanout, open the letter.”

“Yes, Sire.” The young soldier sounded puzzled, just as the others looked bewildered. He cracked open the seal, and Vanimórë read.

_Prince Vanimórë,  
In the spirit of friendship, I feel I should warn you that the high priest has dreamed of the child in your household; and that he was born of a male. You will know, I am sure, that this is what the traitor Annad disclosed to me. He was a bitter man, and my own belief is that the high priest's mind has softened with drugs, but there will be some unpleasantness with the Solstice so close. There are dignitaries here who are jealous enough of you to cause problems. My advice to you is to leave as quickly as possible._

_Dhölkan._

The prince had apparently bethought himself of an addendum.

_I am obliged to say here, that since you were honest enough to reveal your destination was Rhovannion, I was forced to enter into correspondence with Prince Cadmon. You know as well as I, that his army could damage the alliance's, leaving Gondor's forces to break us. However, Cadmon is vulnerable himself. I have promised that we will leave his kingdom untouched and take a more southerly route into Gondor's lands if he remains neutral. His responses have been careful, thus far, but all rulers know that they must first look to their own lands and people. You, Prince Vanimórë, dwell far to the south and can be of no great aid to him, even if you truly wanted to. I would advise that you travel back to the Harad, for you may not receive the welcome you expect from Cadmon._

“Inside,” Vanimórë said curtly. He laid a hand on both Legolas and Maglor's back and guided them from the garden.

~~~

_He does not know me. And these many times he has come with Dana, and I felt nothing. She was concealing him from every-one, including himself. Why was he trying to return to Mordor?_ He glanced at the proud Fëanorion profile. _Ah, no. I do know that. To face his demons. He could not know of the Last Alliance, and that Sauron was gone. He did not speak because he did not speak in Barad-dûr. So why now? Simple need? Dana? Probably._

“Give him wine, Tanout,” he said, indicating Maglor as he lead Legolas into the bedchamber, and closed the door.

_His name is Maglor,_ he said into Legolas' mind. The prince's eyes flared with shock, and his lips shaped the name, needing no other.

_**He** does not know who he is. Dana found him. I knew him, briefly before the Last Alliance, and he does not recognize me at all._ He put an arm about Legolas' shoulders. “I want thee to pack for Gîl and thyself.” He went across to one of the chests and lifted out empty packs. “Cloaks, warm clothes too. I am not certain where we are going yet.”

“Maglor Fëanorion?” Legolas whispered. Then, “We are leaving?” He shuddered out relief and incredulity both on a long breath. “The temple...? How could they know? Hathar would not tell them.”

“No. She would not. Will not. And I swear to thee my dear, the temple will not have thee or thy son. We have to be ready to move. I will have food brought. Thou must eat, and feed Gîl. There is time, I think. Here.” Carefully he looped a belt around Legolas' waist and buckled it. The hilt of a knife rode above a narrow sheath. Vanimórë frowned.

“Gîl cannot get his fingers around that yet, but be careful.”

Legolas looked up at him. “I am not a warrior,” he said, the imprint of shame in his voice. “I have only used a knife to clean and skin rabbits and fowl. And I am not...strong. I am sorry. I am a burden.”

Vanimórë touched his cheek. “Thou art stronger now than when I found thee, my dear. And will get stronger yet. Thou art skilled with a sling, and I will have Tanout give thee his. This is a precaution, only.” He lifted the prince's chin, and kissed him, a long, burning-hot kiss. “Thou art no burden, sweet. Never think it.”

“But Hathar...” Legolas' face was pale as frost.

He was thinking of crowds descending on the mansion, baying for him and for Gîl, of being trapped in this alien city, dying under the knives of Sauron's servants, he and his beautiful boy. He clasped the child against his breast, and Gîl whimpered. Vanimórë shook his head, his face blurred before a veil of tears, and Legolas blinked them away to see something so inhuman in the purple eyes that he stepped back. It was not directed at him, but it was _violent_ , as if Vanimórë had been the recipient of a challenge hurled into his face, and everything in him rose up to accept it. His white teeth glinted. He kissed the tracks of moisture on Legolas' face, and Gîl's burnished curls.

“Never,” he promised. “Never.” And he thought, _He would not trust me if he knew whom my father is. Doubtless Thranduil's people hate what was done in Doriath, but their loathing of Sauron surmounts that. Legolas would trust Maglor rather than I. And Maglor would hate me if he remembered Mordor, where he knew me as a traitor-thrall. Glorfindel **does** know who I am, and is probably willing to kill me to get Legolas and Gîl. Bloody Hells, what a damned coil. _  
“I will tell thee,” he said. “About Hathar. Soon.”

Legolas smoothed his child's back. “And Maglor?” He did not speak aloud, his words the merest breath. “My father hates the _Golodhrim,_ and that is one of the reasons. I have heard that children were slain in Doriath.”

“War spawns atrocities,” Vanimórë murmured. “And this I will say: He has paid. He would not hurt Gîl, nor thee. And I do mean to ensure that.”

~~~

Maglor was sipping the wine Tanout had poured, who was not himself drinking. Good, Vanimórë needed him alert.

“Where did the blood come from?” he asked Maglor in Sindarin, still incredulous at his lack of recognition. He thought of the days and nights in Barad-dûr when Sauron was gone, a prisoner of Ar-Pharazôn. _Ah well, so much for my hope I was a memorable lover ! Where has he been?_

“I was...followed. I felt...” Maglor shook his head in perplexity, the words coming slowly, a little hoarse. Fretted gold. “He was dangerous.”

“Didst thou kill him?”

“No. He was fast. I blooded him.” Maglor looked at the red stains on his fingers. Something sparked in his eyes, died again. “He called me. The letter was in his hand. He said...it was urgent, so I approached him. He was moving to kill me, I think. I am certain. And so...”

And so. Using a weapon had disturbed him, but when physically threatened, he had acted on instinct, as a warrior does, as Vanimórë would have. And the action, the spilled blood, carried him too close to the past, as a master-wave carries a swimmer toward the shore. Where had it pushed him to? Alqualondë? Doriath? The Havens of Sirion? Vanimórë had seen guilt in him long ago, and it was not for holding to the Oath of Fëanor, but the innocent lives he had taken in the pursuit of it. But what lay heaviest on Maglor's soul had been the radiant shadow of his dead father, and all the shame and longing of a forbidden and transcendent love.

_And he has forgotten that, forgotten Fëanor, and his brothers, forgotten Sauron. And me._

It was discomfiting to look at him, this Fëanorion he had healed and seduced, who had fought him with hate and passion, and see a man who looked like Maglor – but was not. There was a terrible sorrow in it.

_What would I be, if some-one took away everything that had made my life? Blessed, or cursed?_

“He is speaking in Sindarin, one of the tongues of the Elves,” he told Tanout in Haradhic.

“You said you knew him, Sire?”

“Hundreds of years ago, for a short time.” He watched Maglor's face and saw him striving to follow. Perhaps he had never been so far south as the Harad. But he was Elven. He would pick up the language, even as Legolas had come to understand the Mhadi.

“You trust him, Sire?”

“He has forgotten whom he is. But yes.” In Sindarin, Vanimórë said, “Thou canst wash in a moment. We will need to find thee other clothes.”

“But she?” Maglor asked, over the rim of the winecup. “They will hurt her.”

“I know.” And Vanimórë hated it. “But my first concern is to get Legolas and the child out of the city, which she trusts me to do. Tanout.” He flicked into Haradhic again. “Go, eat lightly and arm thyself, then return here.”

When he had left, Vanimórë gestured to the bedchamber and opened the door. Maglor followed him into the wash-room, and unwound the cloth that bound his hands. As he uncovered the right one, Vanimórë saw the silvery scars on the palm. The burn of a Silmaril's facets.

_“There is such fire within thee,”_ he had said in Barad-dûr taking that hand before Maglor wrenched it away. _“And I have made it blaze again, Maglor Fëanorion. Thou wilt live now...and hate me for it.”_

Maglor's shoulders stiffened for an instant, his fine, long fingers spread, and then plunged them into the basin.

_If he does not remember even that..._  
It had gone, the fire, the passion, the anguish, even the hatred. Dana did nothing without reason, but it was somehow – and terribly – _wrong._

There was not much blood. His attacker had been quick to jerk away from the blade. An assassin, Vanimórë mused, would be that fast, and bearing a letter from the erstwhile prince of Szrel Kain...? There had been no alarum. The horns of the city would ring out at the death of its ruler. So, no-one yet knew, or no-one was announcing it. But why would an assassin kill Dhölkan? The finest worked only for pay or sometimes for favors of an equally high price. Who would benefit from Dhölkan's death, which would only set back the council by months if not longer, and few rulers would linger far from their own lands while the inevitable scramble for power ensued. Dhölkan had several sons, both bastard and true-born, and there were equally powerful lords who had influence. That Dhölkan had lived thus long was a tribute to his intelligence and spy-network. Who would want to delay the council, when the conquest of Gondor would benefit the Eastern Men? And who in Eru's name had told the damn priests of Legolas? Annad? Dhölkan? Vanimórë shook his head briefly as Maglor dried his hands.

“She told thee never to uncover thy face,” he stated.

_Dost thou even know thou art an Elf?_

“Not until I was far from the city.” Maglor turned, and there was something in his eyes then that made him the man Vanimórë had known in Mordor: a glow of distant starfire. “But what of _her?_ ”

Vanimórë moved back into the bedchamber. “Thou knowest what she is.”

“Yes, and even so – ”

Legolas was listening, his brows drawn a little, and Vanimórë said to him, “Listen, for thou must know this, also. Thy people, have they ever spoken of the Mother, she who is the Earth?”

After a moment, looking from him to Maglor, Legolas said, puzzled, “There are old tales, and celebrations.” He glanced away, flushing. “I have never seen them, of course. But I heard a song once, that spoke of Tauron lying with Dana before the Elves ever awoke.”

“That is true, from what she has told me. Now, Dana walks the Earth in many guises. Hathar was one of them. She guided thee into the hands of the Mhadi, and into mine. She urged me out early that morning I found thee. I had other matters to attend to, but I felt – ” He shrugged. “I needed to ride out, and so I did. I have learned to listen to my intuition. Did I not say that the hand of the Mother was over thee? When she came here as Hathar, I knew her, and that my belief was true.”

“The _Mother_?” Legolas repeated numbly.

“I see her as she is, always. There are reasons for that, and no time to explain. Trust me.” Vanimórë felt the touch of Maglor's eyes. He paced to the window, looking out into the garden where now, long shadows lay, windless, motionless. “She rarely interferes. Very rarely.”  
And she had done so twice recently.  
 _Oh, Mother. Thou didst bring them both to me: A beautiful, damaged Silvan prince, and a beautiful, damaged Fëanorion. To me. Sauron's son, the only person with the power to help them besides thee. But they cannot stay with me._  
He wanted to laugh at the incongruity of it. He did not. There was too much grief in Maglor and Legolas' lives for there to be any access to humor.  
“But when she does intervene,” he went on, “there is always a reason. I do not claim to understand them or her, but she placed thee in my care knowing I would let no harm come to thee. She has been taken by the temple yes, but she can kill Hathar's mortal body in every way known to man, and with little or no pain, before any-one could harm her.”

“And she will not,” Maglor said surprisingly, bringing Vanimórë's head about. “Because...we cannot do that.”

~~~


	15. ~ Webs Of The Goddess ~

Kaltish snorted displeasure, pushing Shemar's head roughly away. His sex lay flaccid under the swell of his stomach as he reached for wine, drank deep, and heaved himself to his feet.

“Bend over.”

Shemar bowed his head to the rugs, rose and displayed himself over the padded rail. Sickness rose in his throat, an acid burn, and fear goaded his heart. For days he had been unable to rouse his master, and the year before that had seen more failures. Too many. He worked hard, using every trick he knew to bring Kaltish to orgasm with his mouth and hands, but the high priest's erections were scarce worthy of the name, his release weak and soon over. The only practice that Kaltish truly enjoyed now was using one of his collection of huge phallus's to penetrate, wielding them with an energy his own was incapable of. Shemar could not ask what he was doing wrong; a catamite did not speak unless spoken to, and then very cautiously. But he did not need to ask. He had seen how Kaltish's eyes weighed heavy upon slender young Dhalack, although – and there was danger even in thinking it – he believed the high priest was near-impotent.

The temple was Shemar's life. Sometimes, like a fillip of silk, images came, elusive and brief, of a woman's face, her arms around him, the sound of weeping. After that, were the pallets in the neophytes dormitory, with its barrel-shaped roof, and windows built high and thin as arrow-slits to prevent escape, augmented by the men with their canes who herded them out to eat, to the services they were permitted to attend, and the winnowing. For some boys did not return. At first Shemar had believed they had been freed or escaped. Soon after he learned the truth, although no catamite was deemed fit to see a sacrifice, only to become one. Then had come the separation. Those selected for priesthood learned their letters, and the rites. Shemar and those like him, of poor families, were trained as body servants. They likewise learned to read and write, as their masters might require it, but the skills the priests most certainly did require were not taught. What catamite would train a rival? The children learned by observation, and those who did not observe closely, soon vanished. There were always more. Shemar had been the age Dhalack was now, when he was taken to watch the high priest with his favorite, a black-eyed beauty seven years dead. The disgust had never left him, nor had the look in the youth's eyes when he saw Shemar. It would be in his own now: the knowledge that he was out of favor, that death approached. He had kept Kaltish's interest longer than most, but he was eighteen, and had begun to grow taller, shoulders widening to manhood. There was nothing he could do to prevent or disguise it. He had prayed that he would remain petite and slender as a boy, but his body had its own orders to follow.

Every-one knew what happened to discarded catamites.

Shemar always prepared himself. It was something they learned to do here whenever they could, and still he moaned as he was stretched, and the cold length was rammed inside him. He cried out and begged as the pain went deeper, deeper, and the world became a red, awful place of no escape. He did not try to control his tears, his pleas, for he knew that Kaltish would climax the sooner, relishing them. The high priest would be working himself with his free hand. If Shemar turned his head, he would see, in the great mirror affixed to the wall for just that purpose. He never looked any-more, for the sight sickened him, but through the bell-clamor of agony, he heard the high priest's striving grunts, and at last, his bellow of satisfaction. For what seemed an endless time, Shemar trembled, sweating, the phallus still lodged inside him, until it was jerked free.

“More wine,” the man gasped, falling onto his piled cushions, and Shemar pushed himself upright, limping a little, to refill the gilded goblet. Kaltish drank and reclined, his face red, wet with perspiration that Shemar quickly bathed away, before wiping the seed-spatter from his master's left hand.  
The Solstice was five days away, _five days!_ and in the heat of the room Shemar's hands were icy. A knock at the outer door made him start, and he went through to open it. Zaath, the high priest's aide, stood in the passage. His robes were black, like a carrion crow, thought Shemar, and there was indeed something avian in the hunch of his head and his cold eyes, as if he were waiting patiently for something to die so that he might feed.

“Tell the master that the women are here,” he said.

“Good,” Kaltish rumbled, when he heard the message. He seemed to consider, then huffed out a breath that reeked of sweet wine.  
“My robes. And dress yourself. You will accompany me.”

Shemar stared at him through a blind haze of terror. His face was seized in one heavy hand.

“Yes,” Kaltish nodded. “Come.”

It was his death-sentence.

As he left, three proper steps behind the high priest, unable to feel his legs, Shemar saw Dhalack being escorted down the passage, his head bowed. As they passed, the younger boy looked up, and their eyes met in a clinging moment of understanding, fear and despair.

 _I will never come back._ Shemar's mind began to plunge downward, into darkness, to death.

  


~~~

Legolas had moved warily away from the Fëanorion. Small wonder, but he was controlling himself more admirably than he knew. There was a host of questions in his mind and fear, for Gîl more than himself.

 _So do I fear, and so do I have questions. And damnation, Maglor is right._  
If Vanimórë had been alone he would have groaned aloud.

“I trusted Hathar,” Legolas said as if to himself. “Without knowing why. She felt like...like...” His voice went small and wistful, then faded completely.

“Like thy mother,” Vanimórë murmured, and the bent wheaten head nodded. “She is, in a sense, my dear. The mother of us all.” And at that, Legolas' eyes came up, and the words were there, the ones he would not speak, did not have to.

Vanimórë had seen, in a vision bought with blood and tears, how Melkor had destroyed Dana's body long ago, when the Mirror of Fire was a paradise of green, the very earth paying homage to she who dwelled there. She had been torn apart. There was no other way to describe it. He himself had been through torment, and had meted out lingering deaths as punishment for sickening crimes. Never to women though, and he had known some who were evil. And still, never to women; because of Vanya. He knew, better than any-one, what would happen to Dana in the temple and no, she would not escape it, because as Maglor said, her children were not able to. She had talked to him then, and he had understood.

He swore inwardly, his mind already working. What would the temple dare if there was no secular ruler to oppose them? He did not think, truly did not, that any-one would prevent his people from leaving the city. And he could not afford to be trapped in Szrel Kain.

“The man who attacked thee. What did he look like?” he asked Maglor. “No native of the city would touch one of the Marked.”

“He was close-hooded, his face in shadow.” Maglor frowned. “I remember the knife, the letter...” He shook his head.

There came the sound of running footsteps, a rap on the door. Vanimórë strode across to open it himself. Tanout almost came up against a drawn saber.

“Sire.” He saluted quickly. “News has come that the housekeeper has been arrested. She was taken from the street by temple guards.”

A fresh surge of rage blossomed within Vanimórë. He gathered a breath and with it, hard control. “Very well,” he said. “Continue packing and arming. Get the horses ready. Saddle Seran. We ride fast and light.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“The housekeeper,” Legolas whispered, when he had gone. “But she has never seen me, has she? Why would they take her?”

“Because she might have. There are windows onto the garden, sweet, although I placed guards at them, and from a distance, with thy hair loose, thou couldst pass for a woman. Thy face is lovely.” He smiled, stroking it with a fleeting caress. “And people see what they expect to see. But the temple do not know _what_ she has seen. And she has guessed. She is canny.” He indicated Legolas' clothes. “I had Gîl's made first. A child. Well, that was no secret. And then thine own. They might have been for me. Ekesha was not to know, but if she saw them and considered the matter, talked to her niece – and every-one gossips – she would have realized they were not for me.”

“Of course,” Legolas looked down at himself. “You are much taller. But she does not _know._ ”

It did not matter, Vanimórë thought. Ekesha would tell them anything, her own surmises, and that of the other servants. She would tell them night was day once the torturer began his work. Every-one talked. Every-one broke, in the end.

Maglor had not. Not then, but later.

“Come.” He beckoned Maglor and Legolas into the bedchamber and drew breeches, boots, tunic and cloak from the chests, handing them to the Fëanorion. “Put these on. It would raise more eyebrows for me to be riding with a Marked one, and I have a helm thou canst wear.”

Maglor cast him an interrogative look, then gathered the garments and turned away, shedding his own: the long black cloak, the robe beneath it, a breech-clout, clean but worn. He paused then, half-glanced over his shoulder, as if aware he was being studied. He was. Legolas was watching him, and though Vanimórë had seen him naked before, Maglor was still a feast for the eyes.  
He dressed quickly. Still in black, now he looked what he was, a Noldo prince. The clothes fitted him perfectly. _We might be brothers,_ Vanimórë had teased him after dressing him thus in Barad-dûr before sending him to freedom.

“Here.” He took a comb, remembering. After taking Maglor down from the wheel, he had bathed him, washing filth from him, laying him on his own bed, combing the wet hair over a cotton sheet. When it was dry he could bury his hands to the wrists in the silken mane. Part of him wanted Maglor to remember his touch, the greater and more sensible part acknowledged that it would make their situation an hundred times more complex. And yet, without his memories, the last surviving son of Fëanor was no-one.

 _I am no-one, I am nothing._

Irony can have bitter teeth.

Vanimórë tugged free the leather thong, and let the comb slide down. Maglor stiffened, but neither pulled away nor spoke as Vanimórë methodically braided his hair. Braided it the way the Elven thralls had worn it in Angband, the way they wore it through the grim years of the Last Alliance, the way he wore his own for combat. When he had finished it lay in a heavy, gleaming plait past Maglor's buttocks, brushing the backs of his thighs. He turned then. There was nothing in his eyes. Vanimórë offered him a knife-belt.

“Thou canst use a dagger.” He kept his tone prosaic.

“I – no.”

Eru help him. He sounded as timorous as Legolas.

 _He really does not know what he is, let alone whom._ His memories, as far as Vanimórë could track them, descended to Dana's face, Dana's voice, and Szrel Kain. Everything else was buried. Maglor knew there was something before that, but not _what,_ save that it contained violence. Vanimórë was furious as he slung the belt about Maglor's narrow waist, and fastened it. Looking up he saw the quick inhale of breath, and waited. Yes, he _had_ just given a weapon to some-one who had made it quite clear, even voiceless, that he did not appreciate Vanimórë's methods of healing him.

“Thou art a warrior, or were once. Thou art not Nhidan, or a Man of this city.” And he pressed on as Maglor's lips parted and the fire flashed and faded in his eyes again. “My warriors are excellently trained. The ones I brought here are the very cream. Yet thou didst break their hold without a weapon. The man who followed thee, was, I think, an assassin, and something in thee knew he was a danger. A warrior's reflexes.”

“No.” Maglor stepped back.

“Yes,” Vanimórë said ruthlessly, aware of the danger, but with too little time to go gently. “She brought thee to me.”

“She wanted me to warn thee!”

“ _She_ could have warned me. She wanted thee to come to me. What didst thou think to do? Remain here?”

Maglor stilled. “No.” A shudder passed through him. “No.”  
Gîl made a little sound, as if of assent, and the Fëanorion looked across at him. Vanimórë saw his face soften. As Nhidan, Maglor had been here many times, and Legolas had become used to his presence. There had been no threat in him despite his muteness and veiling, and Legolas' empathy reached out to those carrying their own burden of pain, the Marked one no less than Vanimórë. Maglor had sensed it.

“No,” Vanimórë agreed. “The time has come.”

“Where wilt thou go?”

The same question was in Legolas' eyes.

“Eventually, I will return to Sud Sicanna, but for now, I will go wherever I can ensure Legolas and Gîl are safe. I am far from my city, but I am not entirely without resources or allies. So,” he asked. “wilt thou come?”

Maglor's eyes met his, so searchingly Vanimórë expected to see knowledge come into them. It did not. He was almost disappointed.

“Very well,” he said, very quietly. “I think there is no other choice open to me other than stay here and die.”

“Then, as my own warriors have done, thou wilt make a sacred vow on Dana's name to protect Legolas and Gîlríon by any means at thy disposal.”

And there was a sudden cessation of all movement, all breath. Maglor's head lifted, as if he were listening to the echo of words spoken far away and very long ago. His hand flew to his side, to the hilt of a sword that was not there, and hovered uncertainly. A flush burned its way across his high cheeks.

“Thinks't thou I would not do that anyhow?” he demanded. “Why else did I come?”  
The moment passed. Crossing to Legolas he went down on one knee, fluid and graceful. Above his head, the prince's eyes met Vanimórë's, all wonder and doubt.

“But I so swear, on Dana's name. that I will guard thee with my life, Legolas.” Rue touched his mouth. “Such as it is.”  
His voice was coming clearer, losing its roughness with every word. It was vibrant, and there was an expression in Legolas' face of recognition. Of course. Maglor's accent, the way he pronounced his words, the mellifluous intonations, reminded Vanimórë of Glorfindel.

“Good.” There ought to be something worth a smile in all this, Vanimórë thought. He could not raise one. “No more hiding, _Nhidan,_ thou wilt ride with my warriors, armored and helmed. None will know thee.” He did smile then, at Legolas, reassuringly, and came to him.

“And thou,” he murmured. “Wilt thou trust me?”

“Yes,” Legolas whispered. “Of course.”

“I would open my veins rather than see thee harmed. Whatever I do, whatever happens,” he interspersed kisses between the words. “trust me.”

Legolas' color was high, his eyes brilliant, a pure, cool blue gone dark and deep. Gîl reached a small hand toward Vanimórë, who stroked it with his thumb. The child smiled, calm now.

“You are not going to let _them_ be harmed, either,” Legolas said. “Are you?”

“What wilt thou do?”

“Well,” Vanimórë said to both of them. “First _I_ must arm.”

 _Vanimórë !_ The whip-crack of Dana's voice halted him. _No._

 _Then **act !**_ he shouted back. _Thou art in a Mortal body. They will torture thee, and Ekesha. Do something !_

 _Ah, dear boy._

His hands clenched.

 _I lead thee to Legolas. I brought Maglor to thee._

 _For Eru's sake ! And how long will he forget?_ He strode to where his armor hung on its stand.

 _Long enough for thee to get clear of Szrel Kain. As thou hast seen, some things prick through the veil I laid on his mind, like pins through linen. Thou art right: To forget is a terrible thing. But I had to do what I did. Knowest thou why he was trying to enter Mordor?_

 _Yes, I know. Vengeance. He must indeed have been mad to want to confront Sauron, but I understand him._

 _He was not looking for Sauron,_ Dana told him. _He was searching for **thee.**_

 _Me._ Vanimórë closed his eyes. _To kill me._ He nodded.

 _His dark and beautiful savior,_ she said, ambiguous.

 _Bloody Hells._ He worked at buckles viciously. _Only a woman could complicate matters this much. I am lying by omission to Legolas. Neither he nor Maglor know who I truly am, but Maglor, before thou didst cause him to forget, was searching for me to gut me. Glorfindel is hunting for Legolas and Gîl. The damned priests would have them for their Solstice rites, and I will burn the bloody temple to the ground before I see that ! And I have to take them both and Maglor – where exactly? Can nothing ever be simple when thou art involved?_ He flung his helm across the bed. _And no. No. Do not order me. I will not leave thee, Goddess or no, nor Ekesha to the temple. Either thou must do something, or I will !_

 _I cannot,_ she said milk-mild. _Not this time._

~~~

The gates opened onto the street, and horses hooves clashed on the cobbles. Evening lay on the city, but there was no peace in it. Vanimórë felt the charge, the rumble of discontent in the air as if a storm were about to break out of the clear sky.

He had placed a hooded and cloaked Legolas behind Tanout, and Maglor behind him, with two soldiers either side, the company riding three abreast. Gîl was secured at Legolas breast after the fashion of the women of Sud Sicanna, in a sling which held him firmly. He was not riding Lainiell, who was carrying packs, because, Vanimórë said, if it came to a race, she had the stamina but not the stride to outrun a larger horse.  
“If the need arises, she will follow thee, I wager on it,” he had said, and indeed Lainiell had adamantly refused to be tethered to another horse, but kept in line with the other pack-animals, war-horses performing another duty and able to be ridden if necessary. Her ears were pricked eagerly after too long in the stables.

As the old quarter became the place of residence for the wealthy, the streets had been widened to accommodate their entourages, and the road to the gates were kept as clear as was possible in an old city. It passed through a merchants quarter, where shops of spice-dealers and goldsmiths entertained wealthy patrons. It was not busy at this time of day, the rich preferring to do their business in the cooler mornings, and now preparing themselves for the nightly feasts that masked the tensions of the coming Solstice and the council intrigues. The Sicannite retinue, going at a hard trot, brought people from their dim shops to stare.

Sauron watched from the mouth of an alley as they passed. His wound was a thin pink scar, and in another alley near the south quarter a man and woman, or what was left of them, lay dead, their lives hastening his healing and strength.

 _Yes, I thought so. Caring for people truly is thy weakness, my son.Thou hast not changed._

The merchants street ended at the Rimway, the road that circled the outer city. Szrel Kain was ancient, and had outgrown its original walls, but before the Last Alliance, the ruler had ordered a new, high wall constructed in fear of siege. At the same time, the Rimway had been laid, enclosing all of the city save the docks. It was wide enough for cavalry, and the army's stables were situated along its loop, where horses could be stabled if the city came under attack. From the Rimway, one could ride anywhere in Szrel Kain. Vanimórë should have turned right, to the gates.  
He turned left.

And that way, lay the temple. Sauron, sauntering deceptively fast after his son's troop, paused for a moment and then cursed fluently. People nearby made the sign of the eye hearing Black Speech.

 _The woman. You would risk all for a drab from the stews?_ He cursed again, and ducked back into the webwork of thin alleys.

  


~~~


	16. ~ Ashes of Memory, Fires of Pain ~

**Ashes of Memory, Fires of Pain.**

They rode with rage like a rope of fire between them.

“My son must – will – _be with me !_ ” Glorfindel hissed. “Do you deny that I have the right to raise him?”

Tindómion did not deny that. If Glorfindel had felt the babe's birth, the mystical entanglement of two _fëar,_ that his mother had described to him, then it was not for any-one under Ilúvatar to stand between. But Legolas was likewise bound to the child he had nurtured and birthed, and it was of Legolas that Tindómion was thinking.  
“My chambers are beside yours,” he said with what he knew was infuriating logic. “ _If_ Legolas agrees, he and the child will scarcely be separated from one another.”

Tindómion would do it too, Glorfindel knew: take the youngest son of Thranduil into his guardianship, if that was what Legolas himself chose. No-one in Imladris would say him nay, except Glorfindel himself. And the thought of the lovely fair prince in Tindómion's bed, ached and chafed. He had tried not to think about it, but Vanimórë's flagrant sharing of his own experiences made it impossible. More and more clearly he remembered Legolas surrender and response, until he relived it in the way of the Elves, which was not memory alone but an immersion into the past. He felt Legolas, his summery scent, the liquid softness of his hair and flesh and the virginal body trembling around his hardness.

Tindómion could see what was happening, what it was doing to Glorfindel, and might have been grimly satisfied had he not been so enraged, so uncertain of what would happen when they found Legolas. And that was why he was here. The prince _would_ have a choice.

“He is not yours,” Glorfindel said through ice-white teeth. “You have no claim on him !”

“And you do? The claim of lust, is it?”

“The claim of siring a child on him. Ask him then, when we find him !” Glorfindel challenged, leaning on his stallion's withers. “Ask him what he desires, for I think you will be surprised. He was made to be used.”

“You would like to think that, would you not? It erases any guilt you might otherwise feel.” Tindómion pulled Baragar out of the reach of Glorfindel's hand, which would have seized the reins. “You may be sure I will _ask_ him. Those are the only noble words I have heard you utter this day.” That was where the blade cut, he saw, and he was _glad._ He wanted it to cut deep.  
“You want him to refuse to be parted from _his_ child, so that you can take him, and use him with impunity, because it is _his choice._ ” Watching the cobalt eyes turn to blue fire, he drove the stallion forward, pressing close, so that their thighs touched. “He will _die._ Think you that prowess in the bedchamber can take the place of love, or that being used as your breeder, your pleasure-slave will not break his spirit?”

“He would not die!” Glorfindel flamed like a drawn sword in the sunlight.

“Look into your soul, if you dare, He almost did!”

~~~

This was not something he had attempted before, although he had considered it from the moment Elrond revealed Vanimórë's ancestry. It would mean opening his mind, leaving himself vulnerable to one of the Dark Lord's blood. And yet, remembering that splendid face uncovered in Gil-galad's pavilion, the look aimed at him, familiar, curiously warm, it was truly difficult to see Vanimórë as the get of Sauron.

Or was it?

The early stars stared down on him through melting shoals of high cloud. The night was mellow. Tindómion's thoughts were not.

Annatar.

Ost-in-Edhil.

 _“If Gil-galad wears this, his rule will have no end...so it would be for any who wore it.”_

The ring he had been tempted to give to his king. Not Vilya; prentice work, but powerful nevertheless, and beautiful, the colors of the House of Fëanor and the House of Fingolfin intertwined like lovers. And it would have destroyed what Gil-galad was, made him a tyrant, and ultimately Sauron's vassal. Tindómion had no doubt of that, had felt its temptation himself. *

They had unmade it, he and Glorfindel, in the forges of Lindon, without Gil-galad's knowledge. It had taken all Glorfindel's power and whatever gifts of blood Tindómion had inherited from his father and grandfather to destroy it.

And there was not a day since Gil-galad's death that he wished with all his soul that it was otherwise, that he had given the ring into the high king's hands, whatsoever might have come to pass, Gil-galad might have been alive now.

He pulled himself harshly from the thought.

 _There is darkness in all of us, not Glorfindel alone._

A breath of gentle air caressed his face as he turned, looking east. It smelled of summer grass and water, of the Anduin sluicing its mighty way southward to the Eithir. It had been over five hundred years since Tindómion had crossed the Towers of Mist, marching with Gil-galad's army across the Great River to Mordor.  
Half a thousand years.  
Another Age.

 _Vanimórë!_  
He threw the name across the leagues, far into the Eastern night.

For a few heartbeats there was nothing, just the breeze, the small sounds of the darkened land, and silence within. Then, clear and steely came:  
 _Yes?_

 _My name is Tindómion._

He felt a jolt of surprise in the mind behind the voice, an infinitesimal pause.

 _I thought I felt something familiar through Glorfindel. What wouldst thou, Maglorion?_

He ignored the patronymic. Glorfindel was not wrong when he said that Tindómion would kill his own father if he ever found him. Or not wrong enough.

 _I am traveling with him._

This time, there were overtones of amusement, disbelief and the impression that Vanimórë was laughing because he did not know what else to do. It both puzzled Tindómion and oddly relaxed him. There was something so completely _human_ in it, though he did not know what had provoked it.

 _Thou art his friend._

 _Yes._ Despite his fury, Tindómion would not denounce Glorfindel's acts to Sauron's son. _I know what happened,_ was all he would say. _I would take Legolas under my protection if it is his will. Elrond told me of thy...parentage, and it is clear that Legolas cannot stay with thee._ He was speaking, he realized, in the beautiful antique tongue that reminded him too dearly, too painfully of days drowned forever in shadow and blood.

 _Thou doth mistrust me?_ Vanimórë asked him straightly. _I do not blame thee._

 _I do not know,_ Tindómion admitted. _Thou wert fighting with us against thy father._  
Far in the East, a scatter of stars glinted blue-silver, the eyes of the House of Fingolfin.  
 _Gil-galad._  
Starlight.

He watched them until his own eyes burned.

 _Yes._ And, _I am sorry._

 _How is he, Legolas?_

 _Physically, well enough, now._

 _His soul is wounded. Hells, Glorfindel need not have done that. Of all men, he least of all!_

 _I know it!_ And that came on a flame of anger that Tindómion felt in his blood. _Yes, Legolas is soul-wounded, and I cannot heal him, for I did not harm him. Glorfindel marked his soul deeply, and only he can mend that wound, and only with love. I tell thee this: I will not permit him to take Legolas and his son only to use him again!_

 _I agree._ Tindómion glanced across their camp. Glorfindel was lying back on his bedroll, his hair a pale swathe. Even at odds, they cooperated seamlessly, with long familiarity. Glorfindel trusted him to keep this first watch, and Tindómion did so.  
 _And yet it is equally true that he cannot stay with thee. Glorfindel does trust thee, knowing thee better than I do. And still. Thou art bound to Sauron's will._

 _I could not keep him even were I not._ There was a bowstring tautness to Vanimórë's tone. _I cannot live among the Elves, and my city is no place for a child of the forest or for his son. Thou canst have no idea, truly, how Elven beauty is both desired and hated by Men, especially those who know them only as creatures of myth. I would have to well-nigh imprison them to keep them safe from the jealousy and lust they would evoke._

 _Yet thou art the ruler of a city of Men._ The Fëanorion was faintly amused. Vanimórë was strikingly beautiful, but it was a beauty with no soft edges, sword-bright, diamond-hard.

 _I have lived most of my life among Men,_ Vanimórë returned like a shrug. _And the people of Sud Sicanna have long become accustomed to me. I am a trained warrior, and more importantly I can command obedience and respect. Legolas is young, untried, and sweet as honey. And thou art right, Sauron can always find me. When he regains his powers, as he will, he can influence me. I am his, willing or no, and therefore Legolas is not safe with me._

 _Sauron could force thee to hurt him?_ Tindómion demanded sharply.

 _At the end, yes. Or he would try, and I would go mad rather than obey. So. Thou wouldst swear to protect Legolas, Tindómion Maglorion? The son of a kinslayer, whom Thranduil must hate._

 _I would._

 _Even from himself?_

 _What?_

 _There is something in this lovely prince that responds to what Glorfindel is, to his mastery. I am sure thou knowest of what I speak?_ The question came with a leavening of dryness. _He learned it wrongly, by force and with pain, but he yields to strength, even to pain wielded skillfully. If he had a patient teacher, he would come to know himself, and not think it shame that he found pleasure through rape._

Tindómion paced to the horses, dozing, hip-shotten and calm, running his hands down the silken muscle of their necks. He cast a glare toward Glorfindel.

 _I am not of that ilk,_ he said at last. _At least, I would not visit pain on one so young, even in bedchamber games. Art thou saying Legolas wants Glorfindel, and would go to him?_

He felt Vanimórë's sigh.  
 _I do not know, and nor does he. I do know he will not be separated from his son. Nor should he be, and for good or ill, the Glorfindel's fëa and the child's have bonded._

 _We have chambers adjacent to one another. Legolas would be close to his child, and my mother would gladly assist in looking after him._ In fact, Fanari would probably look after both of them. Tindómion swore to himself. He did not want to reveal Glorfindel's offense to her. They were _Gondolindhrim,_ and close friends. Her son did not think she would easily find an excuse for Glorfindel, a reborn prince of the Noldor, forcing a helpless and inexperienced youth, although the circumstances were perhaps not so different; war and anger colliding. Fanari said she forgave Maglor. Tindómion did not.

 _I would protect Legolas with my life._

 _And so will I,_ Vanimórë answered quietly.

 _Where art thou?_ Tindómion asked, sickened at the thought of Sauron taking an Elf woman as his mother had been taken. _Glorfindel makes for the Sea of Rhun, but he believes his bond with the child will guide him wherever thou goest._

 _It will, but I am leaving._

 _Whither goest thou?_

 _Wherever I need to go to keep Legolas safe._ A pause. _Bear south into Rhovannion, thence toward Ithilien._

 _I thank thee._ Then he said, _Elrond wants thee dead._

The laughter was wholehearted.  
 _I thank thee for telling me. But I would see Legolas safe first before meeting my death._

 _Dost thou think Glorfindel could not kill thee?_ Tindómion could not withhold the challenge from his tone in the face of such relaxed arrogance. _Or that I could not?_

 _I have seen the both of thee in battle,_ Vanimórë said. _That is not what amuses me. No. I simply think that he will not, and neither wilt thou._

And then there was silence in the wide, mild night.

~~~

“How long, Benli?” Kaltish asked, and the torturer cast a jaded eye over the unconcious woman.  
“I cannot be precise, my lord. She is strong for her age. Not long, I think.”

“The stupid trull. What does she have to gain by hiding the truth?” The high priest rubbed his brow, tickled by sweat. It was hot in this underground room as under the summer sun outside, fires kept blazing for the tools of the profession. He snapped his fingers for the catamite, who was vomiting in a corner, and felt a smile form. There was no need to torture him. It simply pleased Kaltish to keep him terrified until the sacrifice. Gulping, Shemar came to him, mopping his streaming face, his own wet with tears. A pity pretty boys had to grow up, Kaltish thought, shoving him away with distaste.  
“Wine.” When it came, presented in shaking hands, he drained the goblet.

Shemar backed to the door. He had never seen torture, never been present at a sacrifice; that was for the priesthood and generous benefactors alone. But he had heard what was done, here in these deep rooms, and under the dome. Kaltish's flesh and clothes absorbed the stench of blood and smoking flesh, and he enjoyed inflicting pain.

Behind him the door was solid, metal-bound. Even were it unlatched, there were guards at the top of the stairs. There were always guards. Children sometimes tried to run, although the streets of Szrel Kain would have devoured them. Shemar was wise enough to know he was unfitted for survival alone, without coin or weapon, any training at all save in the arts of pleasure, and many, many times, servicing drunken men in a harbor-side brothel had seemed infinitely more attractive a proposition than the high priest. But the temple had spies. He would have been found, sooner or later, and he did not know the city. He had barely glimpsed it, carried in Kaltish's curtained palanquin, only courts and palaces of the nobles, and the summer lodge to which the high priest repaired after the solstice. Even that was heavily guarded.

And so now...now, the time had come. He had known it would, but because there was nought to cling to but hope, he had hoped, foolishly and with increasing desperation. His eyes went to the woman strapped to the table. There was blood on her gown. Shemar had turned away when the inquisitor began to matter-of-factly cut a length of skin from her thigh, at which she howled, bolting against her bonds. Her eyes were staring, an abyss into unfathomable pain and he saw, for a heartbeat, another woman, face drawn into lines of anguish.  
 _Mother?_ he thought, and then had pressed his hands to his ears, turned away, but could not block out the screams, and vomit jetted up in his throat, splashing on the floor. Neither Kaltish or Benli took any notice, occupied with the fact that the woman had fainted. And she had known nothing, nothing ! Kaltish's sanity had been slipping since the prince of Sud Sicanna had arrived for the council, but had truly snapped a few days ago. His eyes held a look of fanaticism and fear that was quite alien, unseating the dissolute lechery that Shemar knew so well. Only some-one quite mad could believe that a man could give birth to a child. And for this, an innocent woman was being torn apart.

 _Mother..._ Again the image came, stronger this time, and clear. A face, young and lovely, with eyes the color of his own.

A low groan came from the torturer's bench.

“Ah, good.” The high priest's voice, sticky with satisfaction.

The door sounded with an urgent thumping, and Kaltish grunted annoyance.  
“Answer,” he told Shemar, who slid back the iron bar, and was knocked aside by the swift entrance of Zaath.

“My Lord.” His black eyes gleamed like tarnished sequins. “The Prince of Sud Sicanna is here to pay tribute.”

“Here?” Kaltish repeated.

“At the very doors, my Lord. He brings riches.” Zaath licked his lips. “ _Great_ riches,” he emphasized. “He is leaving for Rhovannion and wished to gift the temple before departing.”

“Strange.”

“Indeed. But he does bring wealth.” Zaath dry-washed his hands. “My Lord, it is an Emperor's ransom.”

“Is it so?”

“I have seen it.”

“His whole retinue is with him?” The high priest frowned past him, as if to see through the walls. “Our guards?”

“In place, my lord,” Zaath paused. “Yes, all of the Sicannite retinue is in the ward, and a woman and child.”

“A _woman?_ You saw her?”

The aide glanced at the prostrate midwife. “I saw enough. She is half-veiled, but when her cloak moved aside I saw the swell of a breast.” Clearly he did not wish to infer that Kaltish's dreams were made nonsense by this. Benli stood patient as an ox, waiting for orders.

“Let us go and see what the Dark Prince has brought us,” Kaltish murmured. “This one,” he gestured to the bench. “can wait until I return.” He smiled. “ _He is running._ Do you not see? The taking of this old bitch and the other has frightened him !”

Zaath made that vulture-hunch of his shoulders, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. He had seen this apparently frightened prince, Kaltish had not.

“Do you not think so?” the high priest lashed venomously. “My dreams come from the Great One Himself ! This Vanimórë seeks to placate me with gifts, but the Dark Gods will have their due.”

“As you say, my lord, but – ”

“But _what?_ ”

“No other ruler has ever laid so much at our – at the temple's door.” Avarice was thick as rancid cream in the man's eyes.

“Do you say so?” Kaltish scrubbed a hand over his head. “We will have both, Zaath. The tribute, and the child.”

* This is part of my 'verse. It happened in Lords of the Light.


	17. ~ Through the Darkness, Light and Shadow ~

  
The door thudded shut leaving the hot blackness of the cell to close about Shemar with the promise of death and everlasting torment. He leaned against the wall, trying not to faint, his breathing rapid and high, heart slamming against his ribs. The torturer did not even glance at him, turning to a table whereon lay instruments whose purpose Shemar could not guess. There was nowhere he could look that did not hold terror. The woman's howls as her very flesh was ripped away still echoed in the grimy stone. He retched convulsively, but there was nothing to come up save bile. Still the man ignored him, stolid as a boulder and as unimaginative, for who could perpetrate such pain and still be _human?_

When one came to the end, there was no-one to pray to. The Dark Gods, Shemar had been taught, were deserving of sacrifice, of his blood, the smoke of his burning body. He would not be mutilated until then, because he must go unblemished into the Dark, to serve the Great God as he had served the high priest. When Kaltish returned he would doubtless be put into a cell to await the Solstice. There were only rumors of what happened then; it was whispered that the priests prepared the catamites as if for an assignation with a lover, in silks and scented oils, before taking them to the inner sanctuary, the fire-bowls and the bright knives. He found he was trembling uncontrollably.

The woman whimpered, and his eyes were dragged toward her. He saw her hands stretch, clench and then a wail erupted from her throat as awful consciousness returned. The torturer moved then, without haste, delving one hand into a heavy bowl and bringing it forth. Grainy whiteness trickled through his fingers, and Shemar realized what it was. Salt. For pity's sake ! – and there was no pity here – he was going to put salt on the flayed flesh. The woman knew it too, by the blank horror in her eyes. She strained upward, and again her face melted into another, the only one that had ever showed him love, all but forgotten in the temple.

 _Mother?_

He did not feel himself move. It was the strangest sensation, but not wholly unfamiliar. He experienced it when servicing the high priest, hating what he did and knowing nothing else, his body performing the acts necessary while his mind detached itself, watching from a distance.

One heartbeat, and he was crouching against the wall.  
The second, and he was lifting a butcher's cleaver from the array of implements.  
The third, Benli was turning, alerted by his movement, and with a high scream ululating from the depths of his being, Shemar swung the cleaver two-handed. It chopped into the side of the man's neck, and the meaty _thwack,_ sickened him. A burst of blood shouted across abraded nerves as he fell back. Benli's hands flew up, releasing a fistful of salt that showered into his eyes. He tried to roar, but scarlet was spraying from severed vein in his throat, splashing Shemar, who tasted salt-and-copper in his mouth. The torturer stumbled, reeling into the huge brazier that kept the implements hot. It was too heavy to be casually knocked over, but feeling the heat and attempting to twist away, Benli collided with the out-thrust arms of several irons. They came free, scattering coals down his hair, his bare skin. Blinded, his life-blood pumping out, he blundered straight into the brazier, which ponderously tilted, disgorging it's contents over him.  
His hair caught alight.

The sounds were appalling. Shemar wrenched himself from the frozen panic that gripped his body, and almost crashed into the bench holding the stricken woman. Without thought, he began to unbuckle the straps that imprisoned her. They were thick leather, but easy enough to unloose, having been kept well oiled. Helping her as she came down, he had an impression of a scent that for a moment, overpowered that of blood, roasting flesh: an odor of calming hearth-smoke from childhood fires, of frankincense. He whispered something, he did not know what, and darted to pick up a long knife, then turned to the door. He had not barred it again after lifting it to allow Zaath to enter, and the torturer had not noticed. There was something odd in this, in his being left here, a remote part of his mind insisted. But Kaltish had been occupied with the arrival of the Dark Prince, seeming to forget all else.

Shemar heaved the door open, and put his free arm around the woman, urging her out. Beyond was a round chamber with other doors at intervals it, all closed. There was a pump, perhaps where the torturers sluiced the blood from them, for the stone around the drain was stained dark. To the left, a flight of stairs lead up. There had been guards at the top, Shemar remembered, in a small room. Benli had stopped screaming, but here, screams were nothing to remark upon, and there was no sound of footsteps or voice raised in question.

“Thank you,” the woman mouthed, and Shemar looked at her. Her eyes were earthen and sea-deep in a nest of wrinkles formed by smiling, strained now into creases of pain. She had also taken some weapons from the room, he saw. A knife almost long enough for a short sword was clenched in one brawny fist, and she looked as if she knew how to use it.  
“There is another we must find,” she murmured. “The Black Priest was to question her after me.”

It was madness, but Shemar thought he was indeed mad after what he had seen and done. He had a knife, and would use it on himself rather than be ripped into by the high priest. Nodding, not knowing what he was doing, save that if he were to go into the Dark it would be on his own terms, he turned to the nearest door. As quietly as possible, he slid back the bar, and turned the great ring.  
The only response to the opening of the door was a whimper from the dark room. Infalling lamplight showed a woman strapped to a table. There was bruising on her face, but the torture had clearly not begun. Her clothing was fine, sober-hued, and her black hair, seasoned with grey, escaped a neat braid in thick drifts. Her eyes widened as she saw Shemar and the woman.

“ _You?_ ” she gasped.

“Hathar it is, yes. Hush now, speak soft.”

“What is happening?”

“The Prince of Sud Sicanna is here, Ekesha,” Hathar said, as they released her, helping her to stand. “I think we should go and meet him. After we have freed the others.”

Ekesha's face went blank. “You are mad,” she whispered. “We will never get out of here.”

“You were not expecting to anyway, were you?” Hathar asked. She gestured at Shemar. “He just killed one of the jackals who was working on me.” She began to search among the objects on the table.

“You did?” Ekesha demanded of Shemar, who could only nod.  
“He...flayed skin from her thigh.”

“Young one,” Hathar pointed to a goatskin hanging by a hook from the wall. “Lift that down.”

He reached and unstoppered it, smelling wine. The torturers must get thirsty in their work.

“Good,” Lifting her stained skirt, Hathar showed the wound, at which Ekesha cursed. “Pour,” she said.

A sound came through her teeth as he obeyed, flinching instinctively at the pain it must be causing. Ekesha ripped at her gown and bound it around the thigh. It would have to do, Hathar said, until they were out, at least preventing her skirt from sticking to the raw flesh at every step. She crooked the skin expertly and drank, before handing it over, and Shemar felt the warmth trickle into his stomach.

“Now,” Hathar said, turning to him. “You know the temple, child?”

“Yes,” he said simply. _But we will not escape._ “Who is this prince? Why must we meet him?”

Hathar smiled. It lent youth to her face.  
“You will discover that yourself. He is gold who believes himself dross. I think you will like him.”

The third room was a slaughterhouse. It was impossible at first to tell the sex of the person who had been mutilated, until Ekesha stumbled back and vomited, and Shemar saw a shrunken member in a puddle of dried blood. He lost the wine he had drunk, but gained something else. The rage that had driven him to kill returned like a winter gale off the sea and he saw, through the sickness, the same light in Ekesha's eyes. In Hathar's, there was something different: through what must be a terrible pain, was an anger so old, so titanic, that he stared at her for a moment, before the glare faded to sorrow.  
“His heart is gone,” she murmured. “Burned for the Dark Gods.”

The fourth room was much larger, long and narrow, holding a row of cells. Through small barred openings, Shemar saw men and women, some near his own age or younger. Solstice offerings from the visiting rulers. They had not been mistreated, but their eyes were hopeless, waiting in fear-bruised sockets for death.

He and the two women began drawing back the bars.

“You are free,” he kept saying, to the unnerved, uncomprehending faces. “Be very quiet.” Lest any not understand him he laid a finger across his lips.

And then came the sound of screaming, not from any of the cells but far above. He heard a shout nearer at hand, running feet, and guessed – hoped – that the guards at the head of the stairs had now gone to see what the disturbance was. He glanced at Hathar, who nodded, and said, “We need more weapons,” and returned to the room where Ekesha had been held. When she returned, she was holding an array of devices. One of the freed women, silk-black hair to her knees, understood, and her dark eyes snapped into bitter life. The others moved after her.

Shemar took a breath, fingers clasped tight about his knife. “I will go up first,” he said.

~~~

 _Be calm, trust me. Trust me._

Vanimórë's plea to Legolas was so strong it verged on a command, and the prince felt almost as though he were locked tight in those hard arms, unable to move, as they rode through the streets. He had been veiled from the eyes down, a hood tied close at his throat, but glimpsed tall houses, roof-trees that arched like a recurved bow, some inset with shells, or stained with ocher. At other times, he might have found such decoration interesting. Now he was only terrified. Vanimórë was leading him straight to the temple.

In the placid evening heat the building, surrounded by a circular plaza and wall seemed far more ancient than the city, and of alien workmanship. All Melkorian and Sauronic temples were circular. Its dome was faced with copper that was soot-stained about the louvers, as if it breathed out darkness. Vanimórë's warriors poured through the gate like a flood, and the riders drew up, others flowing into place around him like an honor guard. Vanimórë rode on to the very steps, worn and grooved by the tread of centuries, where four guards stood in ceremonial armor, pauldrons lacquered in red. They made no move to halt or question him as he dismounted, and the soldiers began to heft from the riderless horses leather bags and squat green glass bottles of the fiery spirit _Kesch_ that Legolas had learned was brewed in Umbar and came to Sud Sicanna with traders. He had never tasted it, Vanimórë deeming it too strong for him. Strange how his mind would fix upon such unimportant matters at this time, as if their very ordinariness was desirable. He smoothed Gîl's curls and tiny back with a hand that shook, his heartbeat all but drowning out external sounds, everything but Vanimórë's calm, _Trust me._  
~~~  
For Nhidan, as he still called himself, knowing no other name, it was hardly less frightening, and perhaps more confusing. He had been hurled into this situation, given armor, weapons, a horse, yet none of it seemed wholly strange, and it was that which truly alarmed him. There was a vastness within him, a chasm of lost memories, music, blood, love, and soon he would drown in it. Dana had kept it at bay, he half-comprehended that, taken it away so that he might come to this city with her.

 _“Thou art not Nhidan, or a Man of this city,”_ Vanimórë had said. And, _“She wanted thee to come to me.”_

Had she known, then, that this would happen? Yes. Perhaps there was nothing she did not know, including whom he was. He was of the kindred of Vanimórë and Legolas, clearly. After setting eyes on them for the first time he had unveiled himself before the small disc of bronze in Hathar's scullery. His face was a stranger's, telling him nothing. And what did it matter? he had thought, shying from delving further.  
It mattered far too much. It was his past. He could have asked Dana, and had not.  
 _Coward,_ an inner voice whispered at night when he lay sleepless. _Coward,_ when he watched the two princes and the golden child. And another voice, very faint and distant, insisted that the Dark Prince's jeweled eyes would be able to pierce Dana's veil.  
Nhidan's thoughts circled back to the garden, when he had been unmasked, and the stricken expression in those eyes. It was as if he stood at the very brink of that chasm of unknowing. Then Vanimórë had said something in that strange tongue, and hidden himself, his thoughts behind a different mask, one not of made of cloth, but of flesh and bone and absolute control. From there to here, to the temple that exhaled death. Nhidan felt the darkness rise up, advance on him like a wave, carrying all the detritus of his fractured soul in its roaring black waters, and he might have turned his horse and fled, but for Legolas and the child, the oath he had sworn. With peculiar clarity he sensed a terror equal to his own, and anger stabbed through the fear. Why had Vanimórë brought them here? Holding the reins in one hand, the other fell to the hilt of his sword and closed about it.

 _Because,_ came his voice, raising the fine hairs on Nhidan's neck as it sounded in his mind. _The only way to fight one's enemies, is to **fight** them._

There were only one hundred soldiers, but all of them bore themselves with absolute discipline. They moved into position behind their ruler, and a group closed about Legolas; others falling in behind them. Their eyes were dark and calm, with a look of waiting. All were armed for battle.

Vanimórë dismounted, and ascended the steps. From within came a stir, and a tall, thin man in black robes stepped under the lintel.

“Bring the high priest,” Vanimórë told him. “I leave the city for Rhovannion, and would rectify my omissions by gifting the temple before I depart.”

The other seemed to tear his eyes from the helmed face before him, looking at the soldiers, and unmistakably at Legolas, who was trying to soothe a restless Gîl.

“It is not customary to...”

“Is it not? Then I shall endow some other temple.” Taking a small pouch, Vanimórë untied the strings, tipping the contents. Rubies fell like gobbets of blood. As if it were a signal, the warriors with him upended the bags they carried, spilling faceted gemstones of blue and green. Opals whirled with clouds of gold-shot black, red, cream, and diamonds splintered the light of stars. The guards eyes shifted downward.

I will bring him, lord.” The man vanished back into the doorway, and Vanimórë turned down his hand, letting the gems fall, gesturing to his warriors to lay the treasures on the steps. Two fingers flicked, brief and sharp twice, then the forefinger alone, and Nhidan realized he had seen those movements before, in the mansion ward where they had mounted.  
Battle language. Vanimórë had been giving orders to his men, needing no words. The temple soldiers seemed oblivious, or held their discipline excellently, for Nhidan believed they were about to die. Perhaps it was a language the Dark Prince had developed for his army alone.  
 _How do I know this?_

The sounds of the city lapped at them as they waited, even the horses stood motionless. Legolas sat still, though the hand that rested on his son's back tremored, and then he stiffened as there came the tramp of feet, and another man appeared at the top of the steps.  
He was shaven-headed, rotund under robes of sheer red silk, his eyes queerly blurred in heavy pouches, as if he were drunk or drugged. Revulsion clawed an icy path up Nhidan's spine. He eased his horse level with Legolas, and looked past his emotionless guards. The lucent blue eyes met his. He found his mind reaching out, forming a reassurance.  
 _It will be well, Legolas._

And, to his astonishment, Legolas heard him.

~~~

It was all most improper, Kaltish considered, as his acolytes clustered behind him, but it was an opportunity he had not thought would come his way, and he would waive protocol in this instance. As the guards moved into position in the vestibule, he swept past them to the doors.

Rulers bowed before the high priests of the Dark Gods. Every chieftain and prince, every king, no matter how mighty, bent their heads to the temple, acknowledging a power higher and far older than themselves. Some hated, many feared, a few, such as Dhölkan, were world-weary and faithless, but all of them bowed. Thus it was that Kaltish came to an abrupt halt when he found himself looking _up_ into a pair of impossibly purple eyes under a plumed helm.

“I thought the smell of wealth would bring thee,” the Dark Prince said, his voice rich and cold as chilled wine. “Or was it the sweetness of innocent young blood?”

Kaltish felt his eyes widen as he saw the gems scattered like pebbles. His palms itched, and his mouth dried. Zaath had not been exaggerating. Behind him, he heard the shift of robes as the acolytes ogled wealth the like of which even Kaltish had never seen. He tried to peer past the wide, armored shoulders, to find the child Zaath had seen, but the prince countered him. Frustrated, torn two ways, he half-moved to scoop up a handful of jewels, swallowed and caught himself at the indignity. Then the contempt in the prince's voice filtered through the glitter and rage swelled inside him. He sucked in a breath, heard his words come thickly.  
“The child. You have the golden child. He belongs to Kaal.”

An ancient thing, terrible as it was beautiful, opened in the inhuman eyes and for a heartbeat, Kaltish saw what it was and realized that he had made a fatal mistake.

There was a whisper of cloth, a pain like ice. His mouth gaped, hands flying to his belly.

Nhidan did not see Vanimórë move, but two of the temple guards grew dagger-hilts above their gorgets. Before the remaining pair could move they too were crumpling to their knees. The high priest fell back into the vestibule, face a rictus of horror. There was screaming, a struggle at the doors as guards tried to push past him and the acolytes.

They ran into a storm of steel, men falling, tripping others. The Sicannite warriors spun throwing-knives from their baldrics, and their aim was perfect. The temple soldiers, foiled by their dying comrades retreated. Vanimórë flicked more commands and followed, twin blades sweeping from their sheaths. The warriors in the ward dismounted, lifting their horn bows. Tanout helped Legolas down from the saddle, and then all faced outward.

 _Thou hast been a warrior, Nhidan,_ Vanimórë's mind-voice was unruffled amid the sudden violence. _More even than my men, than Tanout, I am trusting thee to protect Legolas and Gîl. I know these temples, and I have not been idle in these months here. The bulk of the warriors are within, and they are mainly ceremonial, not battle-trained, but there will be some outside, and servants who truly believe in the masters they serve._

Nhidan had come down from his saddle with the others, and now he reached for his the bow.

 _But I am **not** a warrior,_ he thought, as it bent under his hands, easy as a willow switch. There was no time to wonder, to feel surprise, as a group of soldiers ran around the corner of the temple. And they too, carried bows.

~~~

“Remember the dagger,” Tanout had whispered to Legolas, as he took his hands. His face under the war-helm was anomalous, his movements crisp, but his brief clasp was warm. “Though I swear you will not need it.”

Vanimórë had moved the belt and knife-sheath so that Legolas could reach his right hand back and grasp the hilt, but making it impossible for Gîl's nimble fingers to touch it. And still, the thought of using it so close to his son, now gripping his tunic tightly and making little noises of fear, was frightening. He wanted to close his eyes, to shut out what could not be happening, but he knew he must watch to, at the last, protect Gîl, if he had to.  
“It will be all right,” he murmured, his mouth quite dry.

And then the bows sang, and he watched as Maglor fired shot after shot with hands that blurred. Every arrow he loosed hit its target, and Legolas thought how terrible the Fëanorions must have been in battle, when they fell upon Doriath that winter so long ago. But Maglor was fighting for _him._ His mind voice chimed with Vanimórë's, but lacking the prince's serenity, it was passionate with resolve.  
 _No-one will touch thee. I swear it !_

~~~

The rear of an imposing building is ever a contrast to the facade it presents the world. Behind the temple were stables, store-rooms, a smithy, slave quarters, penned animals, a butcher's block for slaughtering. It was a veritable market. Wagons rumbled in and out bearing food, oil wine, cloth, incense; soiled garments were borne out to wash-houses. The only difference was the lack of women. Women who entered the temple never left it.

Now, the few guards at the rear gates turned at a dim horn-call and raced into the temple. The slaves and wagon-drivers exchanged confused looks, then yelled and scattered, horses screaming as a great, pale dog-like shape appeared on the walls with a scrabble of claws, and leaped down into the ward, clearing a path of panic.

No-one, thought Sauron, would truly remember what had happened this day. There would be stories exaggerated in the telling until even the truth would seem too mundane.

Inside the warren of rooms and narrow corridors, he caught up with the last running guard and brought him down. The others did not even look back. Stripping the man of his breeches and weapons, regretting he could not remain in wolf-shape, his senses drank in the blood, the flesh that cried pain, and followed them through empty passages until he came to a guard-room above a flight of steps. His ears, keener than a Mortal's, easily discerned the cautious, low voices from below, the hesitant tread of light feet. He waited.

~~~

Vanimórë hit the guards like a sentient firestorm. They could not hold their line in the face of those blades that took life as if it were wine to drink of, as simply, as easily, and within moments those who were not cut down fled the vestibule for the hall of worship. The Sicannite's, now completing a command he had given them outside, hurled the glass bottles of _Kesch_ into the great fire-bowls, But it was not _Kesch,_ although the strong spirit would have burned; Vanimórë had replaced it with oil. His men had a long journey ahead of them, and would appreciate the drink. Why waste it on filth? Bottles shattered, oil feeding the flames in explosive bursts that sent the fire shrieking triumphantly upward. Hot shards of glass sprayed in every direction, and men scattered, shouting. A vast red and black hanging caught alight.

~~~

Kaltish stumbled, hands locked over intestines oozing from the cut the Dark Prince had opened in his belly. The silk robes were soaked with blood and the sight of it, his own, the feel of slippery guts under his fingers brought high screams tearing from his open mouth. There was fire everywhere, the clash of weapons. No. _No !_ He was the chosen of the Dark. Kaal blessed him with true vision. It could not end like this. A physician...he must get to his chambers.

Through the thrashing red-gold light, he saw purple eyes glowing. The Dark Prince stalked him like a wolf, swords flashing out instinctively to clear any attacker from his path. Kaltish whimpered and turned, heaving himself toward the aisle. Coils of intestine slithered from his stomach. His voice skirled upward to an animal wail.

 _Kaal. Kaal!_

~~~

The face that rose into the torchlight was young, amber colored eyes enormous with horror. He was gripping a knife in one trembling hand. Blood streaked a delicately handsome face, which froze in shock upon seeing some-one.

 _Catamite,_ Sauron thought unerringly, sending questing tendrils into the undefended mind and verifying his guess.

“I am no guard,” he said. “There is fighting. If you are going to escape, do it now, boy.”

The youth glanced quickly up and down the passage, wary as a fawn.

“Do I _look_ like a damned guard?” Sauron asked impatiently. “Come on !”

There was the sound of heavy breaths, and a woman climbed up, eying him with preternatural calm. She gestured behind her, and others came. Another woman, middle-aged, then a dozen younger men and women. All were holding implements of torture. Sauron was impressed and irritated. No-one had ever escaped the deep dungeons of Barad-dûr. Kaltish ran a very lax temple. But not for long. And in this confusion, he might be able to face his son and deceive him. Vanimórë's mind was firmly upon other matters, and one must take chances at times. Had he not done so before?

“Northblood?” The first woman asked him.

“Yes,” he said briefly. Was this the midwife? Yes, and she had been tortured. Her body was awash with pain, her mind clouded with it. He could read nothing through it, but that did not matter now; what he truly sought was close at hand.

 _I should not have doubted him. He really is very good at what he does._

“Shall we go?” He raised his brows. “If the Dark Prince is causing this ruckus, the safest place to be is beside him.”

“You know him?”

“He has a certain reputation,” Sauron replied, straight-faced and laughing inwardly.

“That he does,” she agreed. “Yes. Let us go.”

~~~

Kaltish reeled, trying to hold his entrails in as he prayed to the Dark and screamed for Kaath, for slaves, for Shemar, forgetting where he had left the youth. He did not dare look back, but he felt the pursuit, remorseless as death itself.

And then, there were people coming toward him through the smoke, and he found his voice, for one of them was Shemar.

“Help,” he slurred. “Help me.”

He saw the catamite stop, his face washed by a pulse of light, and then another stepped forward, half-naked, tall, loose pale hair. Kaltish lurched, groped, and the stranger reached out. Through blurring eyes, the man saw him catch a rope of intestine that slipped through the torn robe, and pull. Then he kicked Kaltish full in the belly.

The high priest staggered back, falling at Vanimórë's feet, who stared across him at the Northman, at Dana and Ekesha, the others behind them. Dana limped forward, looking down at the dying man, the great knife in her hands.

 _Thou art always so dramatic, child._

 _What did he do to thee?_

 _It will heal. Now let us get these out. Thou hast spare horses?_

 _Of course. Who is the man?_ He glanced over her shoulder.

Her eyes were the Goddess', unknowable, warm, dangerous.  
 _Some-one who wants to leave the city, my dear._

He shrugged. _So do I. Let us go. Dost thou wish to kill this...thing?_ His booted toe nudged the high priest.

 _Thou hast done a good job of killing him, I think, but..._

A young man came forward, handsome and blooded, one slim hand over his mouth. Kaltish's eyes begged him – and he turned away.

“The Dark Gods,” Vanimórë told him pitilessly smiling, “are harsh masters, no?”

Sauron met his son's eyes for the first time in over five hundred years, luminous, beautiful, deadly, and held his breath.  
There was no recognition in them at all.

Vanimórë spun away on one foot, his clear whistle cutting the air, and the Sicannite warriors converged upon him, forming a living wall about the released prisoners. There were few left to fight them, and those who did were quickly dispatched. No-one had ever attacked a Black Temple before, no-one save Vanimórë. It was not something any of them prepared for.  
Behind them, Kaltish croaked out his slow death.

Sauron watched his son's straight back, and a smile folded his mouth.

~~~


	18. ~ Beyond What We Know Of Ourselves ~

  
~ The land was easing into its gentle descent from the foothills to Anduin, the river that drained the northern world. The distances were drowned in heat, hazy and vague.  
In the brittle, furious silence that had fallen between he and Glorfindel, Tindómion scanned the land and saw, far off still, the metallic glint of sun striking water.

_So far to go._  
Across the river, then south, skirting the Greenwood, south-east into Rhovannion and Gondor. He had not told Glorfindel of Vanimórë's advice to ride down into north Gondor rather than east, and glanced aside at the gilded profile, wanting to strike it, knock some compassion into one whose gold had hardened to black iron. Yet they had to co-operate if they were to travel together. Tindómion might have ridden on alone had he not hoped that by the time they found Legolas, Glorfindel would have come to feel some compunction at the least. And if they were to make this journey together, there were practicalities to consider.  
He took a breath, spoke Glorfindel's name.

Rhovadhros leaped from a trot into a full gallop. If Elves used spurs, Tindómion would have thought Glorfindel had driven them into the stallion's sides. Baragar snorted, tossed his head, and the Fëanorion let him go, closing the distance between them.

_What in the Hells is wrong?_

They thundered across the ground, the two stallions negotiating the strange terrain with a grace that belied their size and power. Glorfindel's hair, unbound, was a golden oriflamme, and his face _burned_ as if he were charging to war. And there was something else there. Tindómion had seen Glorfindel angry, seen his battle-wrath, whereat foes fled. He had seen him sorrowful and passionate, but never had he seen him afraid.

_Glorfindel!_

_My son is in danger!_

Tindómion looked east. _Vanimórë?_

The rush of the wind was his only answer.

_Damn him to the Dark if he lets harm come to my son!_

So far away. So many leagues to cross, and nothing either one of them could do.

~~~

It was Legolas' first experience of battle, the blood-roar of men killing one another. Horses screamed, shrill and furious, and he thought disjointedly of Lainiell, hoping his quick, clever little girl would keep clear of the conflict. He wrapped one arm tight about Gîlríon as one of the Sicannite warriors staggered back, and others filled his place. The stricken man fell close to Legolas, the shaft of an arrow quivering above his gorget. The prince knelt without thinking, caught one of the hands that grasped for help, for life. Blood bubbled from the pierced throat, trickled past his lips, and he choked to death, dark eyes rinsed finally and mercifully blank by death. Gîl was sobbing, Legolas' own eyes filled as he gently loosed the soldier's hand. Horror, and sadness at life so easily ended, throbbed in his mind, so that the noise came in in beating waves. The man had been so afraid, and there had been nothing he could do. He rose, cupping Gîl's head, unable to see through the massed ring of soldiers, only their armored backs, striving as they fought.

Over the din, a meld of beating metal and mens' voices rendered into one voice of anger and pain, he heard a bellow rise, and suddenly a Sicannite crumpled before him. Legolas glimpsed a massive man, slabbed with muscle, lofting a great mace.

“Zha'ki!” Some-one – Tanout? – shouted in warning, and jumped past him. For a heartbeat, Legolas met the huge man's eyes, and they seemed otherwhere, like the red-robed priest's. But they knew him, he and Gîl. It was impossible, of course, but the man's mouth parted in an eager, dreadful smile of recognition, before the Sicannite warriors hid him from view. Swords caught brief flickers of light, Tanout uttered an ululating warcry, and there came a snarl in counterpoint. Another soldier folded in on himself, and the one next to him neatly sidestepped, only to be hurled aside by the mace. A gap opened, and the monstrous figure surged toward Legolas again. His face and body ran with blood, his teeth were scarlet, and as he howled once more, bestial, and insane, it sprayed from his mouth in a mist. He was wounded somewhere, and direly, but he was still coming, stepping on the dying man, the mace sweeping out to clear attackers from his path. Legolas saw it hit a shield and send the soldier reeling. Tanout jumped in, quick as a fox, and his sword bit deep; he danced out of reach as the back-swing of the weapon came around.

Gîl was silent now, but his body was tense, small hands clenched in Legolas' tunic. He knew; he knew the threat.

Celeirdúr had once told Legolas that in moments of great fear a warrior must either act or die. The madman loomed over him like the tales he had heard of mountain trolls, raising the mace ready to bring it down.  
And Legolas stabbed out. He screamed in wordless defiance, in love and fear for his child, hatred against this reeking temple and the dark power it represented. He did not even remember drawing the dagger, but it went through the man's leathers and into his flesh as if they were butter. And it was not enough. As well try and stop a charging boar with a needle. The mace was at its apex, and Legolas backed. His boot hit the soldier's body, and he righted himself, but the mace was coming down now, _now,_ and he was too close –

A sword shirred the air. Legolas saw it pass through the man's upraised arm, which hung for a moment, severed clean from below his elbow. Then the mace began to descend, still gripped in a huge hand. Arms locked about Legolas and whirled him aside. He saw, as he was turned, Maglor's free hand come out and catch the mace and impossibly, he arrested its fall as neatly, as effortlessly as catching an apple. Held in Tanout's arms, Legolas watched the Fëanorion's muscles flow and harden as he shifted his grip, then he spun full circle and smashed the mace full into the screaming face. Tanout turned Legolas' head toward him the moment before it connected, but he heard the impact, the fall of the body, the odd silence after it. Then came a voice.

“Well fought,” Vanimórë said. His hand rested on Legolas' head, then his lips. “No, do not look, my dear.”

Tanout carefully turned he and Gîl within the ambit of his arms.

“It was a heart-stroke you dealt,” he said quietly. “It would have killed him. He was dying of many wounds, but it was the _Zha'ki_. It is a narcotic that can send men berserk, so that they do not even feel their own death-wounds.” There was a spatter of blood across his face, a shadow of pain from some unseen wound, but he smiled. “That was great bravery. I am sorry. I swore you would not have to use the dagger.”

“No.” Legolas swallowed, trembling, his words breaking like ice on his lips. “I was terrified for Gîl'. I did n-not...know what else to do.”  
The remembered _feeling_ of the knife penetrating the man's flesh was sickening. He gagged. Tanout called for water, and another soldier came forward with a skin. Legolas drew his veil aside and drank, then saw with distress, that there was blood on Gîl's hair. Tanout produced a cloth and soaked it, but the golden curls streaked pink. For some reason, the sight of it on his child was abhorrent, and Legolas kissed him, murmuring, “Sorry, Gîl'. Sorry.”

“We are heading for a camp beyond the city,” Tanout said, all gentleness. “There we will be able to rest and clean ourselves. Come.”

They were all moving now, or those who could. Legolas could see little, with Tanout deliberately shielding him, but he noticed a Sicannite stooping over a comrade's body, cutting a lock of hair.

“We cannot take the bodies,” he was told, as he was lead toward his horse. “We ride as for battle. But those who fall will be remembered in the temple and their souls rest now on the bosom of the Mother.”

The Mother. Legolas stopped dead.  
“Did they find Hathar, Ekesha?”

“Yes, and other prisoners.” The young warrior gestured to his left.  
As Legolas mounted, he saw with relief that Lainiell was there, waiting. She was blood-splashed, but walking well, and nosed at his thigh for all the world like a hound glad to see her master. Gratefully, he stroked the long bone of her face. His hands were tremoring again. He was shaking from the inside out. Tears gathered in a relentless storm behind his eyes. He blinked against the onslaught and Gîl made a soft sound as if to comfort him. From here Legolas could see the smoke trailing out of the temple doors, the fallen bodies, the glitter of gems scattered on the steps, the released prisoners, Hathar among them. She was favoring her leg, her gown was bloodied and her face drawn, but she looked up at him with a warm smile.  
 _Thank Eru,_ he thought, and she nodded, as if she felt his relief, turning to a young man beside her. Legolas found his eyes straying irresistibly toward the dead madman, and a great horse came between, blocking his view.  
Maglor's eyes were shattered mirrors, a thousand, thousand points of dark silver. They were haunted, brutalized by violence, or...  
 _Vanimórë said he does not remember who he is, but he remembered how to fight._  
“You saved my life, and Gîl's.” The tears would not be stemmed now.

“I swore to protect thee.” Maglor said simply, and not simply at all. There was nothing uncomplicated about this man, Legolas thought.  
“I do not know who I am.” There were spikes of dread in his voice. “But I do not regret killing to protect thee and thy son.”

 _You are Maglor Fëanorion,_ Legolas thought. _You and your brothers rode into Doriath one winter and slew men, women, children like Gîl perhaps. And that was only the second kinslaying. Your names are spoken with a curse of eternal damnation in Eryn Lasgalen. Yet you swore to protect me, and slew for me._

Maglor's horse came closer.  
“Do not be ashamed of thy feelings. You faced death and did not flinch.” He took Legolas' free hand and held it. His clasp was very strong.

“Thank you. Would you...will you...?” Legolas gulped back his request. How strange, and how weak that he should want a kinslayer to ride beside him. How could _any_ of these things be happening to him?

“I am not one of his soldiers,” Maglor said, in that beautiful voice that raised such echoes in Legolas' mind. “And my life is bound to thine, now. I would be glad to ride with thee, if that is thy wish.” He leaned in the saddle and kissed Legolas fingers.

~~~

There were some Sicannite warriors wounded so badly that they would not live, even were a physician to have them in care. The man with the mace had killed one with a blow to the skull, and two more were dying of internal injuries. Vanimórë's men knew what he would do, what he had done before when the situation required it. They were soldiers, and feared a long and agonizing death almost more than senility and incontinence in old age. They watched impassively as their prince went to the dying, knelt, spoke to them, and ended their pain swiftly, taking a lock of hair to be burned with sweet oils in the temple of the Mother. When it was done, he looked over to the released prisoners. He wanted to reach the camp before dark, but it would mean pushing the horses hard, and while his soldiers were used to such exercises, the men and women from the temple were not. Dana, who could have healed herself in a moment of thought, was limping badly. He cursed and strode toward where she was trying to heave herself onto a warhorse.

“Elar,” he called over his shoulder, and soldier came with a leather pack. All his men had rudimentary medical training, but Elar, whose father was a skilled physician in Sud Sicanna, more than any.

“Honey, and a bandage,” he said after examining the injury on Hathar's leg. “For now, while we ride. Later, I will look at it again.”

“Good boy.” Dana smiled tiredly.

 _Heal it,_ Vanimórë snapped at her. _I can feel thy pain._

She merely shook her head, and laughed at his silent opinion of her stubbornness. In five hundred years he had never won an argument with her, doubted she listened to anything he said, but still he persisted. To his mind she had suffered enough at Melkor's hands, but she said calmly that she had suffered as Dana, not as a Mortal woman. He was furious with her, but could not regret the release of the sacrifices, and the death of the high priest. As he settled her in the saddle, he saw the youth from the temple ease close. He stared past the moving horses toward the body of the madman, and his eyes were huge and sick. A cap of dark hair clasped his jaw with sweat-damp wings.

“A torturer, I think,” Vanimórë said with distaste. “Sometimes they take _Zha'ki_ for their...work. To enjoy it the more. What is thy name?”

The young man's eyes came to his as if drawn by a magnet. Every single part of him seemed to gather behind his amber-brown eyes, looking at Vanimórë, until he ducked his head and whispered, “Shemar, my lord.”

“He freed me,” Dana said in Hathar's rough, south quarter voice. “Killed the bastard who was working on me, brave lad.”

 _The black priest's catamite,_ she spoke into Vanimórë's mind. _He had tired of the boy – too old for his tastes now – and wanted to terrify him. Of course, he should not have been left with me, but your timely arrival did allow me to suggest the priest forget about this one. I did not encourage him to kill the torturer, however. That was himself alone._

“Ofttimes need takes us beyond what we know of ourselves,” Vanimórë murmured. He knew what the young man must have endured in his short life. It needed only that word, _catamite,_ and one look into the high priest's poison-steeped eyes.  
“Well done, Shemar. No one will touch thee now.”  
He glanced at the others, all bewildered and frightened, wondering how many could ride. Horses were for men and the wealthy, save among the Mhadi. The girl with the fierce eyes and long, inky hair was Mhadi, but most of the others were going to fall off as soon as they started galloping. He turned away to where Seran waited. On his coal black coat, blood was rendered invisible, but it was slick and bright on all four hooves, and it was not his own. Vanimórë swung himself into the saddle and rode to the front, then wheeled and raised his voice.  
“I am Vanimórë, prince of Sud Sicanna, in the Harad. Thou art free. We ride to one of my camps south of the city where thou wilt rest and be fed, and then we shall talk again of thy futures. I do not intend to abandon thee, and will provide for thee, but my road lies southward. I would advise thee to accompany me to my camp at least. How many of thee can ride? We will go fast, and if there is the smallest chance any-one will fall, I will mount thee before my soldiers. Raise thy hands.”

There was silence but for the scrape of hooves on stone. All but Dana were too shocked to speak at the moment, incapable of thinking of a future that, until a short time ago, they did not have. Later, there would be time for them to consider.

Shemar slowly raised an arm, followed by nine of the rescued sacrifices. The Mhadi girl lifted her head, jaw set, and Vanimórë winked at her.  
“Thou shalt have a horse,” he said.

“You can come with me.” Dana turned to Shemar. “Do not worry. I can ride. Get up behind and hold on. You will not fall.”

Within a short time, Vanimórë had placed those who could not ride behind his soldiers, where they looked scarcely less nervous. But there was nothing else to be done. Of the few prisoners who were mounted, only the Northman sat easily, reins in one hand, pale eyes calm. Vanimórë gestured, and two of his men took up position around him. The northerner's eyes flickered as he noted it – no fool, but Vanimórë had known that. He lifted a hand.  
“We ride.”  
 _And we stop for no-one._

It was fortunate that the temples occupied a place apart in the cities. No-one wished to live or trade close to them, but some-one would investigate, Vanimórë knew, an acolyte or servant who had fled at the violence. Soon the palace would be alerted, though Dhölkan was dead, and the secular powers were rarely keen to involve themselves with the temples. And the city watch scorned temple guards, considering them the dregs. There was no sense of fraternity.

The plaza was empty, as Vanimórë had expected. There were rites held at sunset, when the world was going back into the dark, which was still two hours or more away. But not tonight, he thought, smiling. He had already offered Melkor and Sauron their sacrifice.

~~~

Shemar did not believe they would leave the city. He did not believe it as he held tightly to Hathar, feeling the powerful surge of the horse's muscles, did not believe it even as his sore hind protested at the motion. He could not afford belief, not though he had witnessed Kaltish's dying, though he had killed a torturer himself, and seen, as they came from through the temple doors, another slain. Notwithstanding all of that, the greater part of him was still back in the cell, vomiting, weeping, and this was a dream...  
It was a dream of crashing hooves, of armored men about him, all moving at the same speed, as if they were caught in a current, sweeping down the estuary together, into the sea. A high wall streaked beside them, endless, inescapable. It was a dream of a helmed face, of gem-coloured eyes, a beautiful mouth saying, _No one will touch thee now._ He had felt, looking into those eyes, as if a great hand slapped him, robbed him of sense and breath. No-one living looked like that, and so this was a dream, and he was in the cell, with the braziers burning, and a woman shrieking...

There was a sense of slowing, the horse turning, gathering itself again. Like an open mouth, the gates yawned before him, guards on watch towers high above. He had passed this way when traveling to the high priest's summer palace. Shemar waited for the gates to swing shut, and to awaken. A shadow swept over him, hooves rang hollow against stone, and the horse quickened its pace again. He saw a city of tents, the yellow dust-ribbon of the great road, and beyond the armored backs of the warriors, a banner snapped at the air like a purple flame.

He smelled hearth-smoke and herbs, and drifted. The speed became a rocking motion, and he rested within it, his body held away from discomfort, seeing the banner streaming, the road rolling under the horse's hooves like a river...

~~~


	19. ~ Dawning ~

  
He woke to a woman humming. For a moment, his eyes still closed, he simply listened to the tune. He had heard it before, but could not remember where. It spoke of safety, warmth. Beyond it mens voices spoke in an unfamiliar tongue. Withal, he thought dreamily, there was something almost peaceful, normal in the sounds. A horse whickered, and somewhere a man laughed merrily, something Shemar could never recall hearing in the temple.

The temple...

 _The torturer cutting a flap of blood-slippery skin from a woman's thigh as she screamed and screamed..._

 _The torturer himself screaming, as Shemar struck him with a cleaver. The brazier, tilting, scattering coals, burning..._

 _A room with flesh piled in clots and lumps..._

 _Kaltish staggering toward him, ropes of intestine spilling over his hands._

 _A man sending a mace full into a madman's face, reducing it to splinters of bone and..._

He sat up, his gorge rising, and found himself retching into a wooden bowl, while a hand smoothed his back. As he gasped, a firm arm propped him up, and a cup was pressed to his mouth. He tasted honeyed wine, and forced it down.

“There now,” Hathar said. “Yes, you will have the horrors a long time, child. I am sorry for it.”

Shemar looked up into her face, felt his own shaking.  
“Are we...safe?” His voice came hoarse.

“Drink. Yes, we are safe enough.” She was sitting beside him, legs stretched out. The old gown had gone. This one was dark blue, red thread and tassels sewn about the neck and hem in exuberant designs. He was, he found, naked under a dark blanket.

“You have slept all night,” Hathar informed him. “We are in the prince's way-camp, close to Tain Gar, a village on the road south. It does well on Mhadi trade. They do not enter the cities of the inland sea unless at great need.” She pointed to a neatly folded pile of new clothes. “For you, when you are ready.”  
Shemar stared, then looked up. They were in a tent, the floor covered with oiled cloth, and two pitchers were set nearby, one with a large bowl and towels beside it.

“I thought it was a dream.” He shifted and the movement dragged a smothered groan from him. He _ached_ and in places where even Kaltish's attentions had not left him sore. His rear end felt as if some-one had been punching it with iron fists, while his thighs were stretched wide. He was not sure he could stand.

“He is the one.” He swallowed more wine. “The one the priest was speaking of in the palace. The Dark Prince. The heretic.”

The woman snorted. “They might call him so. He does not worship the dark gods, certainly.”

“He fired the temple.”  
The temple and the gods worshiped there had been all-powerful in Shemar's life. Then there was a pair of astonishing eyes under a black helm, a god stalking through smoke and flame...

The tent flap opened, and a man entered. He wore no armor, but durable black clothes: tunic, breeches, high boots, yet he still moved with the grace of a trained warrior. Silently, he handed them a large bowl and two spoons, taking the the soiled bowl away. Shemar glimpsed grass, the edge of another tent before the flap fell back.

“Eat,” Hathar ordered him briskly. It was a savory stew of chicken, roots, and barley, well seasoned. Plain fare but nourishing. Shemar thought he would vomit again until the second spoonful, and then he ate with more appetite, feeling it fill his hollow belly. They finished the bowl together, and Hathar set it aside.

Shemar sipped a little more wine. The horror was still there, and he had to strain against his mind turning toward it, but the woman's presence, comforting as the blanket that lay over his body, seemed to help. He did not know what to think, much less what to do. The idea of _safety_ was so alien to him. For the moment, he wanted just to lie here, to soak in the knowledge that he was safe. Free. What was freedom?  
Hathar began to hum again, pouring wine from a skin.

“He is real then,” he murmured. “The prince. I though I saw a god. How is...your leg?”

“Hurts like fire, but it will heal.” She drank. “And good Dorwinion helps the pain. Ah, the prince. Yes. He has _Shendi_ blood, though he is no god. He has known gods too well to want to be one.” And she chuckled at that, while Shemar stared in confusion.

He came into the tent with the force of a storm. Stripped of the accouterments that had made him a wargod, plainly dressed in black leather, he lost none of the glamor. It was as keen as a dagger and by far more dangerous. He moved smoothly as a serpent, and Shemar saw a great braid of hair swinging to his knees, coiling on the floor as he went down in a hunter's crouch. He looked at Hathar, and she met his eyes. Shemar imagined that silent words passed between them, for she smiled a little and he shook his head.

“Now, how feelest thou?” He turned those eyes on Shemar, who felt their touch like fire, and scrambled to free himself of the blanket and fold to his knees. He was trained for this, and all that training had vanished with one look.

“Peace.” The prince laid a hand on his shoulder. “Thou wilt ache after the ride, and need rest after the terror.” His smile was blinding, a white sunrise.

“My lord,” Shemar murmured, looking down.

“Not unless thou wouldst choose that. Hathar will go with the Mhadi, and there is Mhadi blood in thee.”

Confusion and a resurgence of fear bound up Shemar's voice.

“Do not be afraid of me.” The prince's fingers gripped a little, then lifted. “I owe thee my thanks. I thought I would have to bring her out myself. Tell him,” he said to Hathar. “that he has nought to fear from me, and the Mhadi come to trade soon. The clan-mother, Gushadi is here, if thou wouldst travel with her.”

“I will tell him, and I will be ready,” she said. “I would personally thank Gushadi.”

The prince moved like a cat. Only the rustle of oiled leather as the tent flap dropped, told of his departure. Shemar raised his head.

“The Mhadi would take you,” Hathar said, shifting her weight with a hiss and a curse of pain. “You do have their blood, and that means much to them. But your happiness lies to the south.”

“To serve – him?”

“That one keeps no catamites. He will not even take the women of his seraglio unless they are willing.”

Shemar shook his head, unable to comprehend her words. He only knew one trade, but looking at the prince, he had no more thought of pleasuring him than he would the dark god of legend.

“How do you know all this?” His heart began to slow. The food and wine conspiring to draw him back into sleep.

“Most folk have heard of him,” Hathar said. “You said the black priest spoke of him.” She pressed a finger between her brows. “I have the Dream-eye, child. And more.”

Shemar picked at the blanket, disturbed.  
“There were rumors of a demon prince far in the south. I did not realize this was he.”  
Beyond the tent walls he could hear the prince speaking to some-one. The tone was unmistakable, the language alien, yet he had spoken common Rhûnaic fluently.

“I do not know their tongue.” Something fell away inside him, panic fluttering there like a wounded bird, distraught. “What can I do?”

“He knows yours, and you can learn Haradhic easily enough.” A hand smoothed his brow. “Sleep for now. Sleep.”

~~

To Legolas relief, and somewhat to his surprise, Gîlríon had slept on that ride from the city. As for himself, he had been glad to ride hard and fast, too shaken to think of rest. It was all vague when he woke in the morning. At the end of the ride, amidst a flare of torches and snapped orders, he dismounted, was lead to this tent, had drank a cup of broth, and fed his son. Water had been brought for him to wash, and both he and Gîl' had donned fresh clothes. Vanimórë stayed beside him, and Maglor had come, both of them attentive, their hands and voices kind. His last memory was of Vanimórë kissing his brow, and pulling a blanket over him. Now, there were a few aches, but Vanimórë was right, he was stronger than he had been. The wounds ripped into the skin of his soul by terror, by battle, using a weapon, were deeper, different. He was grateful that Tanout was there, offering fresh milk, bread spread with honey, and his understanding. Vanimórë was going around the men, he explained, a thing he always did after battle.

“The first time is ever the worse,” Tanout confided. “I was sixteen when I saw my first engagement. The prince lead some of us to aid Borshia Dar, a city on the coast. I had been well trained, but I was terrified. Most soldiers are before a battle. The ones that are not are usually mad, and not to be trusted. They make mistakes and are a danger to their comrades. The prince trains us to be cool-headed.”

Legolas let Gîl suck some honey from his finger. Hathar, _Dana_ , he reminded himself, had said it would do no harm, and that honey was a healer. He hoped that she was healing herself, and at his thought, her mind brushed his, loving, reassuring.  
“I was not cool-headed.” His voice sounded small. “I was expecting to die.”

Tanout's face darkened. “The prince is angry with himself. He says he should have thought of it, but how could he? And he was right. The greater part of the temple guards were within. The midwife, Hathar told of...” He paused. “Well, it is likely that the madman was a torturer. They found a room below the temple, she and Ekesha and the youth. Some-one taking _Zha'ki_ would do such things.”

Legolas closed his eyes, not wanting to imagine what such a monster would do to a helpless prisoner. He felt Tanout's hand on the crown of his head.  
“Your thoughts became your actions. You did not run or hide your face.”

But Legolas wanted to hide his face now, to forget that horrific and focused brutality that had roared at him, promising death. Tanout's arms came around him as he cried.

~~~

“Who am I?”

“An Elf, but thou didst know that. Thou must have known it for some time.”

“That is what I am, not whom.”

Vanimórë's eyes shone in the dimness of the tent. “True. But Dana knows. Why wilt thou not ask her?”

Opening his hands, Nhidan rubbed at the white scar which burned him at times, though he knew the mark must be old.  
“Perhaps I am afraid of the answer.”

There was a world of complexity in the prince's eyes.  
“She will not tell thee, anyway. She said thou wilt know – in time.”

“ _Why_ 'in time'?” Nhidan demanded. “And why have I forgotten? What did I do that was so wrong, so shameful, that she wanted me to forget it?” He came to his feet.

“Perchance it was something painful.” Gentle, the words.

Nhidan whirled. “I know that! There is anguish and blood. Thinks't thou I do not know it? And I know of the Elves. When she spoke of thee and Legolas, of the Elves, it was already within me. But _who_...” He clasped his skull with both hands, closed his eyes. “I have warred. I fought without thinking, killed without feeling...”

“There is nought to feel. Bullies, rapists, murderers are welcomed by the priests.” Vanimórë snapped his fingers, not a command this time, but an abrupt dismissal of those men, their lives. “They are not worth a thought. And that torturer knew what he was looking for somehow. He wanted to kill Legolas and Gîl'. On temple ground it would be a holy sacrifice.”

Nhidan dropped his hands, lifted a winecup, his mind shuddering from the thought. Legolas had looked so vulnerable standing before imminent death, slim and straight as a spear, the child strapped to him, clinging, trusting. That had been too close.  
“I smelled his spirit. It was rank.” He turned his head away. What he had felt on seeing that thing – for he could not call it a man – had been an abhorrence so intense it set white fire in his blood. There was no guilt in him for the death. “How are they? Did they sleep?”

“Yes,” Vanimórë assured him. “Legolas is shaken, of course. I left Tanout with him, and guards outside the tent. Gîl' is better. Babies are tough little creatures, and I asked Dana if the ride would be harmful to either of them. She said not. It was good of thee to ride with him.”

“I swore to protect them.” Nhidan rubbed the scar again. It stung. “I do not take oaths lightly.”

The words surprised him as he said them. He felt them in his mouth, hot and blood-red, tasting of love. Something opened like a hidden door. For a moment, he saw a shining thing, a jewel, two jewels...no, they were eyes; eyes more alive than any gem and more radiant. He fell into them, the flame behind them...and then the door slammed shut and he was left outside in the dark.

In the dark. Alone, lost, with no light to show him the way.

A hand touched his face. Some-one was there with him, in the nothingness, and two lights kindled there. Another pair of eyes, but purple these ones, brilliant, glittering. These, he would not allow to leave him. He plunged into them, past their armor of ice into the summer warmth beneath, clenched his hands into sinew, and exploded from the darkness into a kiss like a starving wolf. Desire hammered into him harder than any blow, something long forgotten and familiar and _desperate._ His body thrust flush against Vanimórë's, who pushed back into him. The kiss ran two ways in a thunder of raw need. A storm broke, and he could not get enough, could not give enough. Nhidan felt his breeches part, the iron hardness of his length spring free, and then it was swallowed, drawn upon hard, licked, teased. So roused was he that he came in heartbeats, pulsing rushes that took the strength from his legs. The pleasure incinerated him with power, but it was a magnificent immolation.

 _“I will give thee...myself.”  
“...myself...” *_

Words twined about swords, faintly curved, sharp as grief. Words like black roses, with thorns of fire and tears.

He had gone to his knees. Vanimórë was kneeling before him. His lips touched Nhidan's again, and he tasted his own seed, warm, musky.

“Who art thou?” he asked, then, “ _Why?_ ”

Vanimórë laughed briefly, a dry, sensual sound. “I am what – and who – I am. I would help thee an I could. But perhaps thou wilt not want my help. Whether or no, I hold thee to thy oath to protect Legolas and his son.” He rose. “And why?” He laughed again, more briefly, more dryly. “The darkness has its own light, beauty.”

~~~

Legolas had been weeping, a spring shower of reaction from the evening before, and the marks were on his cheeks. Tanout was sitting beside him, an arm around him, and Gîl' had a hand on his cheek. They looked up as he entered, and Legolas quickly brushed at his face.

“Tanout, I thank thee.” Vanimórë smiled. “Now go and sleep. Appoint two other guards for this tent, then rest. I want all of us fit to ride when we must.”

“Sire.” The young man rose and saluted. “There is no shame in feeling thus after battle, is there?”

“None. Worry when thou findest pleasure in it. Now go.” He winked, and Tanout smiled, leaning to touch Legolas' shoulder and Gîl''s curls, now clean of blood.

“I feel like a fool,” Legolas took the cloth Vanimórë pressed into his hand. “But it was not like killing a rabbit, or a bird...I _felt_ it.” He crumpled the kerchief tightly. “And I was so afraid. But it still felt...”

“I know. War is never pleasant, my dear, though men sing of the glories of it, and sometimes it is necessary. I thought thou wouldst be safe, and had no time to plan.”

Legolas looked up at him, lashes spiked dark and wet.  
“It was not your fault,” he protested. “And...Maglor saved us.” His voice hushed to an inaudible murmur. “Tanout pulled me away, and Maglor...”

“Yes, I saw it. Impressive. And I owe both of them thy life and Gîl's. But remember too, thine own actions.” Vanimórë smiled, drifting back the gleaming hair with his fingers. “No training, a knife against a man made mad with narcotics, wielding a mace. Thou didst not panic. And yes, I marked thy dagger. It was a killing blow. I am proud of thee.”

Legolas smiled, pale and tremulous, but it _was_ a smile, and Vanimórë did not want it to fade, but to cultivate it like the roses of his palace gardens. Yet Legolas had to know. Glorfindel's fear for his son had been colossal, a honed punch of raw emotion which Vanimórë had to hold back forcibly lest it distract him. Once they were clear of Szrel Kain, and he was sure there was no pursuit, Vanimórë had assured Glorfindel and Tindómion that both Legolas and Gîl' were unharmed. It did not assuage Glorfindel's wrath that his son had been in danger, and neither should it. Had there been any other way, Vanimórë would have taken it. But he would not leave the women in the temple. He had vowed to himself that he would get them all out, and yes, it had been a near run thing. How in the Hells had that madman known of Legolas, he wondered. The soldiers he had killed had simply been obstacles in his path. He wanted the prince and the child.

Vanimórë kissed Legolas then, kissed him as he had kissed Maglor, the same need in all three of them, imperative as a battle trump. He kissed Legolas until the prince trembled from an emotion other than horror and shock, and his gasps were those of hunger, not of tears. There was even less privacy in this tent than in the city, but he half carried Legolas into the small entrance chamber, screened from both Gîl and the encampment, pleasured him as he had pleasured Maglor, so that both essences mingled in his mouth.

“Hells, I want more,” he murmured, taking him back to Gîl. And there was no time for his own pleasure, none at all. He was painfully hard, and set his teeth to will the erection away. Legolas was flushed, flustered, and more tempting than he could imagine, and at least the haunted look had fled.  
“But rest, my sweet. There is but one thing more I have to attend to.”  
And later, he must tell him of Glorfindel.

If the guards outside had guessed what had happened, they made no sign, but stood to attention as he passed. He did not even have to go out of sight of the tent to deal with this matter, and had planned it thus.

Most of the prisoners would go with the Mhadi, he knew. They were people of the East, not the South, and both he and Dana would smooth their way into the tribe. Vanimórë would use gems, the Mother her more subtle, more powerful influence.  
The Northman was another matter.

He was awake, standing in the entrance to his tent, and looking into the distance. One of the two guards appointed to him made a sign with his fingers. The man had not left the tent all night.

“Step within,” Vanimórë said to him mildly, in Westron.

The grey eyes flicked up from the soldier's hand.

 _Interesting._

“I am at your service, lord prince.” He inclined his head, and entered.

“Art thou?” Vanimórë wondered, as he slid the edge of his dagger against the man's throat. “I think we should have a little talk.”

~~~

Legolas took several deep breaths, trembling, but this feeling was good, so good. He smoothed his son's hair as he allowed it to cleanse him, to sparkle through his veins as the rare taste of wine did, potent, shocking. He started as a guard called his name. Prince Legolas; they all addressed him thus, making royalty out of nothing, investing him with a title stripped from him by his disgrace.

“Yes?” he gathered Gîl close, nervous again, ill-at-ease.

“The man Nhidan asks to speak with you, my lord.”

“Oh.” He swallowed. “Yes, please. Let him come.”

Maglor entered, loose hair in a tousled wave, nigh as long as Vanimórë's. There was color on his high cheeks, and his lips were red, eyes silver flame.  
 _They were never so bright before,_ Legolas thought.  
And they looked at one another for a moment, understanding passing between them, the need, the _hunger._  
Lost, both of them.  
Lost, and found.

~~~  



	20. ~ Wounded Hawks ~

  
~ Sauron locked himself into stillness. The hand that held the knife to his throat was steady as iron and as strong. Fear fluttered and hissed in his blood. He had been aware that his son placed guards beside him as they rode from the temple, and stationed them outside his tent; had expected it, for Vanimórë was too experienced to trust a stranger. But there had been other things Sauron needed time to consider, and the soldiers were little more than an inconvenience.

Maglor

Had he had the time, Sauron would have liked to mold Maglor into another Vanimórë, a magnificent weapon, just as he would have preferred Celebrimbor as a willing servant, rather than a dead martyr, but the arrival of Ar-Pharazôn's army had forced him to abandon the notion. The bloodline of Fëanor was not a metal fashioned quickly or easily.  
Yet the experiment had not been without worth, for it had provided another means of testing his son. Telling Vanimórë he would make of Maglor a witless buffoon had been a goad. Melkor might have relished such slaves, but to Sauron, who had lived among them, the Noldor were too useful to waste, and Maglor himself too rare. There was a sense of revenge there, of course, for all that had gone before, but what a slave he would have made if he survived. The last son of Fëanor in thrall to the greatest enemy of the Elves since Melkor. A sweet thought!  
At the end though, Sauron doubted Maglor would live. He had gone too far into the black places of mental and physical agony. But Vanimórë would do all in his power to see that the Fëanorion did live, Sauron knew, and even as he issued orders to his son, he also knew that they would be countermanded. Vanimórë would never bring Maglor to Númenor. And, knowing what the punishment would be, Vanimórë had not fled, nor sought to avoid it. He had come, alone. Still, Sauron had to admit to some surprise, and more than a little pride, when Vanimórë was shown into Ar-Pharazôn's throne room, and their eyes had met.

Now Maglor was here, mind clouded, memories buried. His torments in Barad-dûr had broken something in him after all. But how did he come to be in Szrel Kain, and with Vanimórë? Sauron did not like coincidences, did not trust them. Something was happening here outside his ken, he recognized it as a man scents the winds that bring the first snows of winter.

And then there was the young Elf and the child, the very reason for his entering the temple, for Sauron could see no better opportunity to infiltrate Vanimórë's close-knit circle. It was a risk, but a calculated one. He knew his son. Despite everything, despite all, he did not believe Vanimórë would kill him.

In the ensuing battle, Sauron had been unable to see the youth clearly, but knew it was an Elf. The veil would fool Men, if they expected to see a young Mortal woman, but the carriage, the movement, with its fluidity and power, were Elven and when he had moved, Sauron decided on the gender. Later, when they had gained the encampment, he did glimpse the Elf. The thin cloth had fallen from his face; a beautiful face, vulnerable in its fine bones and huge, fearful eyes, but a male face. It was that shock of confirmation that had confined Sauron to his tent as much as the guards. He needed to consider this.

A fertile man.

It troubled him that he had not sensed it, had had to _see_ it. If Vanimórë did not know him, Sauron reasoned that his regained powers should have been enough to feel the Elf's uniqueness. He had not.

With Vanimórë's dagger at his throat, an arm wrapped around him so tightly that Sauron could not move, he wondered for a moment if his son had known who he was all the time. He tamped down his powers so that nothing would reach that acute mind, and breathed in sandalwood, traces of perfumed soap, thinking how fastidious Vanimórë always was, attempting to wash away the abuses visited on his body, even after hundreds of years. And he was astonishingly hard. His erection pressed against Sauron's back, feeding blood into his own.

“There are not so many Northblood in the cities of the Inland Sea,” Vanimórë said in his silk-dark voice. “Not since the East began to raid Gondor. What is thy plan, _assassin?_ ”

So. He had guessed that much. Carefully building a reputation could work against, as well as for one.  
Sauron threw the knucklebones into the face of Fate.  
“I may have saved you a great deal of inconvenience, Prince.”

“By killing Dhölkan?”

So very clever. It would not do to forget that.

“He found your presence disturbing and disruptive to the council. He was glad enough to advise you to leave. But one thing he did not tell you. I did.”

“Thou didst pen the addendum to his note,” Vanimórë said. “Yes. I thought the hands different. He wrote in haste and the ink sputtered a little. Thou wert much more calm.”

 _Yes. You would notice that. And now, it is as well for me that you did._

“He thought you would ride for Rhovannion as you purposed, and he has people there. It could have made things...difficult for you. Dhölkan was a cunning man.”

“Who paid thee to kill him?”

“It was a matter of preserving my own life,” Sauron told him, the blade-edge raw on his skin. “I meant to leave Szrel Kain, and I knew too much. There was one last service he required of me. I had refused. Oh, not you. Prince. He wanted me to assassinate Tarostar* of Gondor.”

Vanimórë's body-heat soaked into Sauron, who quickened to it. His son was a _furnace,_ and Sauron could draw upon it to more swiftly regather his old powers. And he was enjoying this; of his own volition Vanimórë would never come so close.

“Why?” he asked. “I am sure Dhölkan would pay well for Tarostar's death.”

“I did not believe I could succeed.” He hesitated just enough for a crack to show in his poise, then continued frankly. “I am a pragmatist, Prince. I am also of the North. The enmity between the men of Rhun and the Harad, and the kings from the sea does not concern me.”

It was almost true. His hatred for the Men of fallen Númenor was deeper and more ancient than Mortals could comprehend.

“Say on,” Vanimórë said mildly, dangerously. “What brings a Northblood to the Sea of Rhun?”

 _Can I do this?_ “I was a trapper in the North. Some of the settlements up there – ”

“Where is _there?_ ”

“Beyond the headwaters of the Great River, Prince. Do you know it?”

“I know where it lies. Go on.”

“Some of the settlements are very remote. They live by their own laws. I saw something that I objected to, and killed two men. The village hunted me. I was forced to come south.”  
He could feel Vanimórë thinking.  
 _This is a path you want to follow my son. Your sympathies lie this way._

“There was a woman, gathering wood. Two men had come upon her...”  
Vanimórë's aura intensified, like colored glass when struck by sunlight.  
“One was raping her, the other waited his turn. They were drunk...absorbed. I killed them, lead the woman to her home on the edge of the village.”

“And they drove thee out.”

“One of the men was the son of the village headman, the other the son of the smith. Both were more important than the woman.”

“And so, thou didst come here. Why?”

“It was not planned. The village sent dogs after me. I lost them walking along a stream bed for some leagues.” Sauron slowly loosed a breath, feeling a little rill of blood gather in the hollow of his throat. “My father panned for gold and trapped for furs. My mother was a healer, a witch, so people said. We lived apart, learned to be sufficient unto ourselves. She died of an ill no herb could cure; her heart I think. It was very fast. My father was killed by a rogue bear the year after. I had nothing there, and so I journeyed on, past the Great Wood, into Rhovannion, and eventually to the inland sea.”

“Now, give me a reason not to kill thee.”

“Because I would serve you, Prince. Dhölkan was no friend to you, I was not privy to all his plans, but little aid would you have had from him had the high priest fomented a riot, demanding sacrifice. Which he did.”

“Serve me?” Vanimórë said flatly. “Why?”

“I used my stealth and skills to track and spy, to sometimes kill, to live in these cities.” Sauron infused a trace of weariness into his voice. “But I am more.” He hid the smile. “My mother was a clever woman, and lettered. She had books of herbs, flowers, trees, wildlife, wrote down her potions and infusions, and taught me medicine, to read and write. I have learned Rhûnaic since coming here, some Mhadi, and can learn other tongues. Perhaps there would be opportunity in your city to be more than a killer and a spy.”

The sounds of the camp edged into the silence that followed his words. He did not even breathe, but the hard beat of his heart shook the bead of blood from his throat. It wept down his chest like a red testimony to truth.  
Then, without warning, the dagger was gone, and Vanimórë stepped to face him. Sauron held his eyes wide and honest, surprised by the effort it took. He was seeing Vanimórë the way others always had, and it was _impressive._ No wonder he had made himself a ruler of a city that had been ancient since before Sauron raised Barad-dûr.

Sud Sicanna.

That was something else to ponder. Sauron knew of the one whose oldest name was Dana, but only through rumor. Melkor's battle with her had taken place in ancient days, and though there was none among the Ainur who had not felt it, still she was an unanswered riddle, something outside the Music. Melkor had hated her, destroyed her, and yet somehow Men and Elves in diverse places came to call the Earth, _She,_ after a being they had never known, a harmless and logical belief, Sauron supposed, for the Earth was fertile as a woman was. It was not surprising either that his son, discovering the myth, would make his city a center of worship for a dead goddess. This, after all, was the youth whom had killed his sister rather than see her as Melkor's plaything, had loathed himself ever after – and would do it again.

“You were the one Nhidan struck.”

Sauron pushed his musings aside, shook his head impatiently.  
“I meant no harm to him. I knew that I would not be permitted to come near you. The midwife and her son were the only people who came and went freely. But I was too late, and there was no time. I had to follow the Masked one, and he turned on me. His mother had been taken. I saw the mob. No wonder he thought me an enemy and panicked. His knife scratched me, no more.”

Vanimórë's lashes lowered as he traced the line of the scar with a fingertip, and Sauron's stomach clenched.  
“Lucky. He might have gutted thee.”

“Well, he took the letter,” Sauron said quietly, enjoying his son's touch with deep-hidden amusement. “You left the city. And I think you are not heading for Rhovannion. So I accomplished what I intended. Unfortunately, I misjudged Dhölkan's caution. Some of his hired thugs were waiting for me. Backed into an alley, I could not fight them all. They took me to the temple for a Solstice sacrifice, but your coming allowed me to break free from them.”

“And yet, I do not trust you.” Vanimórë smiled, a mere baring of white teeth. “What happened to my man, Annad?”

 _Careful..._ A pulse of blood-red washed over Sauron's eyes. _How much does he actually_ know? _Little, very little. He did not stir from the house. Dhölkan told him nothing. And still, he knows. Or he guesses._

“A stupid man.” Sauron moved a hand in a gesture of dismissal. “He should not have trusted Dhölkan, and he certainly should not have trusted me. But he was afraid of your vengeance, lord Prince, and was greedy. He wanted to leave the city quickly.”

Vanimórë said nothing, observing, thinking. It was intoxicating, this dance with his oblivious, dangerous son.

“I merely ask for a chance to serve you, or at the least to join your company until you reach Sud Sicanna,” Sauron filled the silence, even while realizing that Vanimórë wanted him to. Nervous men often feel the need to fill the quiet with their own voices. “I think a man might do well there. It is said to be thriving, rich, and...different – ” Cautious still, Sauron raised a hand to gesture, and Vanimórë watched him. “to these places of the East.”

“All cities are much alike.”

“Well, then,” Sauron dropped his eyes, as if to hide a shame. “It is rumored that you are a kinder lord than most.” And he breathed over his son's open wounds.  
“I had seventeen summers when I left the North, Prince. I was strong. I survived. Barely. It was winter, and there was little game. The winds across Rhovannion are merciless. I was stripped to sinew and bone when I reached places inhabited by men, starving. I had to do things I did not want to survive, regain my strength. Some rich men wanted a fair-haired slave. I became a tool, a spy, because it was better than whoring.”

He looked up then. Reading whatever emotions moved behind that hard face was impossible, but Sauron knew his son, and he had not needed to enact shame or distaste. He had been Melkor's toy for a very long time. He allowed a brief slide of that feeling, a glimpse to colour his mind so that Vanimórë, searching, would see it.

“I will observe thee,” Vanimórë said after a moment. “Thou wilt have no weapons, and will be watched by my men. I have reasons for allowing thee to come with me, but I will not trust thee until thou hast proven thyself to my satisfaction. I have known assassins and spies both, and none quite like thee.” He sheathed his dagger. “I am bound to protect the Elf and the child, bound to see my men safe home. Nothing else matters, certainly not thee. I will kill thee if I suspect treachery, believe it.”

 _I wonder if you would, son of mine?_

“Then it is true,” he said, all ingenuous puzzlement. “Both your man Annad and the high priest spoke of an Ælf-man who had birthed a child. The Ælfar are not only myth to us in the North, Prince, although I did not know that their men were fertile.”

“It does not concern thee.” Vanimórë's voice frosted. “He and the babe are under my protection. Consider thyself warned.”

 _Dana?_

 _I told thee he was some-one who wished to leave the city,_ she responded. _He has killed, and yes...has suffered._

Vanimórë examined the man, noting everything from his scar to his arrogant stance. Well he knew about arrogance adopted to armor oneself against pain and fear. Something else he saw too, and raised his brows.  
“Does violence excite thee, Northman?”

“Not always,” Sauron said, then with a smile. “Does it excite thee, Prince?”

“Be careful,” Vanimórë advised. “Thou knowest me not at all.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Sauron bowed, and when the tent flap closed behind his son, he allowed himself to smile.

~~~

Tindómion filled a winecup and, pushing Glorfindel's disordered hair aside with one hand, said curtly, “Drink, for Eru's sake.”

There was a moment of stillness, then Glorfindel raised his head and took the cup. His eyes seemed all blue, the pupils shrunk almost to invisibility as he looked into the east. The early sun flamed them to blind jewels.

When Vanimórë had answered their hurled demands, told them that Legolas and the child were unharmed, Glorfindel had slowly slowed his stallion's headlong run, and finally reined in. Both man and horse were breathing deeply, but Glorfindel's was a struggle against overwhelming fear. It broke the hard golden enamel of his features, took away the bone-deep arrogance. They had halted for the short summer night, and rested the horses, but neither had slept. Tindómion had watched. Glorfindel had watched, but he was looking at something deep within.

“What in the Hells does he think he is doing?” he asked now, but quietly, as if fear had drained him of rage. “My son could have died. He is a baby.”

The greater part of Tindómion's sympathy dissolved.  
“So could Legolas have died.”

Glorfindel looked up, made a fist with his free hand and slammed it into the turf. “Yes, I know.”

It was a reaction, Tindómion noted. The anger was still there, deep, ingrained, dark.

“Do you not see?” Glorfindel's voice came taut. “My child is not a dream now, a dear wish of my heart that I put aside through two lifetimes, knowing it could never be. He is _real_ , I feel him all through me like my own veins. And he is so far away, and in a danger I cannot save him from.”

Tindómion stared at him, then turned away with a succinct curse. He thought of his own father, long vanished, yet not dead. He understood, had been made to feel in pain and grief, the bonds that tied parent and child, though Maglor was unaware of his son.

“He is not in danger now,” he said. “What if Vanimórë had told you Legolas was dead?”

“Enough!” Glorfindel warned, coming to his feet in one smooth move. “Do not try my temper now, Istelion!”

Tindómion could love Glorfindel as a friend, and honor him for his heroism, even desire him, but there was no respect in him for the man who had raped a youth, and his damned single-mindedness that saw _his son_ and not Legolas, save as a way of getting more children. Tindómion guessed that he would have been just as fearful, as enraged as Glorfindel in this situation, and yet Legolas and the child would not be in danger had Glorfindel, _knowing what he was doing_ not forced an unwilling young wood-Elf.

“Do not tell me that this should not have happened.”

Glorfindel had seen his thoughts clear.

“How can you not see?” he took two strides forward and gripped Tindómion's shoulders, his eyes darkened to rarest cobalt. “My son was _meant_ to be.”

“ _Meant?_ ”

“Perhaps the Valar do remember me.”

“ _What?_ You think the child is your _reward?_ ” Tindómion said through a disbelieving choke of something that was not laughter. “Oh, Hells! Listen to yourself!”

“I had to return to Middle-earth,” Glorfindel's voice was low, deep with passion and yes, longing. “No-one, not even the Valar could have forced me, but I had a duty, even if it meant my death again.”

“If any-one would reward you by giving you a child through rape, then it is Morgoth Bauglir!” Tindómion slammed out with the flat of both hands, and Glorfindel released him only to strike him backhanded across the face.  
“Yes, go on. Is that your answer? I asked Vanimórë where he was going, because I though of leaving you, finding Legolas before you could – ”

“You treacherous _bastard_ – ”

“But now I see you are insane, and I dare not let you out of my sight! You want Legolas to breed on because he is your _reward_ for service to Middle-earth?”  
His face stung, but it seemed a distant pain, and could not compete with this fresh assault of fury.

“I would treat him as a prince! Look at me, do not turn your back on me, Maglorion!”

Tindómion thrust his hand aside. “That is not good enough. How can you possibly think any power but the blackest of all could endorse rape?” He could not hide, did not even try to hide, the scorn in his voice, as he pointed eastward. “Your son was in danger, yes, and Legolas too. Where is your concern? You have not even tried to touch his soul to comfort him, have you? _Have you?_ ”

He heard Glorfindel's sharp, almost distressed, indrawn breath. Silence sliced down between them like a blade. From high up, fell the deep call of a Great Eagle. Tindómion watched its massive wings snare gold from the sun. When he looked back, Glorfindel had bowed his head into his hands.

~~~

Legolas' lips still throbbed from Vanimórë's kisses, his own returned. Maglor's too were passion-bruised to red. He sank to his knees, closed his eyes, and seemed to struggle with himself.

It was still hard for Legolas to fully accept that this man was a son of Fëanor. From the tales that were told, he had not expected...well, he did not know what he expected. Some-one dark and dangerous perhaps, mad as Fëanor was rumored to have been. Not this man anyway, though Maglor _was_ dangerous, perilous even as Vanimórë was, as Glorfindel was.

He remembered, with an inward wince, Glorfindel revealing himself. Whom _had_ he thought the stranger was, when he first rose from the pool? Not a _Golodh,_ not in his father's realm, at war with Imladris. Had the golden beauty announced himself as one of the Valar, Legolas would not have been surprised. How strange that in his short life he should have met Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower, and Maglor Fëanorion, and how skewed it was that one, a legend of valor and self-sacrifice had taken him by force, while the other, damned, a kinslayer thrice over, had made an oath to protect him, and saved his life.

“Vanimórë had something to attend to.” He felt he must excuse his presence in the tent, too often made aware of his own worthlessness not to recognize what he was seeing, what it could mean.  
 _Oh, Eru help me, what will I do?_  
“I...I am sure he will be back...soon.”

The Fëanorion's thick lashes lifted.  
“No. I wished to see thee.” He pushed back his hair. “Forgive me for...this. I needed...to speak to thee.”

 _This._ His appearance: sex-tousled, sated and hungry both.

Legolas felt the fragile ground within him begin to crumble. Vanimórë had sown that soil on the blasted barrenness of indifference, violence and exile. His attentiveness had allowed some delicate flowers to bloom, a small green patch. Legolas could almost see them, valley lily, windflowers, snowdrops, shivering now in a cold breeze. Maglor was going to tell him that he and Vanimórë were lovers, that Legolas was an unwanted complication. Of course Vanimórë would be drawn to Maglor. Even lost to himself, the Fëanorion was far more suited to Vanimórë's fierce intensity than Legolas, their very looks not dissimilar. How could he, Legolas, even begin to compare?  
The white flowers began to droop, withering as the wind strengthened, blowing bitter from the east.

“Thou shouldst not be here,” Maglor said, strained and ragged.

A prelude to rejection.

“I have nowhere else to go,” Legolas heard himself say hopelessly, a small terrified gambit. His throat palpitated and closed, as he stroked Gîl's hair, waiting for the words that would break him again.

“What is it? What have I said?” Maglor's voice was suddenly kind.

Legolas shook his head, took a deep breath which caught, choking him. “Vanimórë...desires you...That is what you wanted to tell me? And I am in the way.”

“No.”

The melange of emotions, brought Legolas' head up. Maglor put out a hand, and Legolas' saw the silver-white scars on his palm, intricate as a snowflake.

“No,” Maglor repeated. “It is not that. Ah, Legolas.” His voice opened to compassion. “Do not fear so.”

He enclosed both Legolas and Gîl' in his embrace, and Legolas let his head fall against Maglor's shoulder, shuddering out his fear as words dropped into his hair.  
“We are both lost. I wanted to speak to some-one who would understand. I was sorry for disturbing thee when thou shouldst be resting.”

Legolas clung to him. “He did not send you...to tell me I am...that I was not wanted any-more?” He could feel the raging heartbeat, smooth flesh under his mouth as he moved his head.

“I swear it.” Maglor's voice roughened. “I meant thou shouldst not be here, in an armed camp, so far from thy kin, and in danger.”

Very slowly, Legolas relaxed, and as Gîl' sensed it, he too calmed, a small, warm weight against Legolas' breast. Drawing away, he lay the child down. Gîl' slept like a puppy, blissful, abandoned, and thank Eru for it.

“But neither should I be here,” Maglor went on very softly, and Legolas turned to look at him, all that grave, somber beauty. “Something was taken from me, and I was shut out in the dark. There was nothing. Nothing. Then Vanimórë was there with me. I was lost, and he found me. Thou wert lost, and he found thee. That is all I meant. _She_ lead us both to Vanimórë, did she not? And so, I must trust.”

“I am sorry,” Legolas whispered in fragments. “I am ... _afraid._ I have nowhere to go, and there is Gîl'...”

“Enough.” Maglor pulled him back, close, tight. “Dear soul, enough. No-one is going to abandon thee.”

Legolas could not speak, he only wanted to be held, to soak up the contact, the closeness. Maglor was saying something, but he could barely hear it through the wind-pulse of the blood in his ears. He lifted his head, blind and gasping, and kisses fell on his face, his neck, his lips, which parted to meet them, to meld the loneliness and find comfort. But Maglor's loneliness was an abyss of dark fire, lost music, and terrible, beautiful love. They plummeted together like wounded hawks, bodies fusing, mouths seeking, hair entangled.  
Lost.  
Found.

And then there was another holding them, arresting the endless descent, encircling them with silk and adamant, with unfathomable compassion.

 _I will not let thee fall._

There was a great burning all around him, the very sky was aflame. Legolas' body had become an instrument that played with every stroke and caress of fire. He felt himself come to orgasm, and become it, and was held through pulse after pulse, by fire-music, by silver-steel, passionate and tender. He floated, fear scorched away in the conflagration, and thought he could hear voices speaking, endearments, feel touches gentling every part of him. He stared into illimitable brightness, a storm that raged into golden light.

Then, the gold raised its head, throwing back a mane of hair that shamed the sun.  
Gem-blue eyes looked into his.

And Glorfindel spoke his name.

~~~  



	21. ~ “I Will Come For You.”~

**“I Will Come For You.”**

 _Legolas._

Legolas was pinned by the wild blue power of Glorfindel's eyes. They melted his pleasure and sudden terror into one single concentrated point. Glorfindel was the Sun, and he, Legolas was being pulled into its center.

 _Legolas, hear me._

He burned in gold, pulses of light intense as the orgasm he could not fight or deny. Glorfindel was around him, within him as deeply as that first time, pleasuring him even as he groaned with the pain.

 _... you shall find true pleasure only ever in defeat, using that sweet body to serve your betters._ *

 _Yes,_ he whispered, and _No,_ and _Please._

And the pleasure-pain melted his flesh through his blood, dissolved his bones, and he was gone, he was nothing...

“You have given me a son, Legolas Thranduilion.” Inflections of pride and anger gleamed along the voice like sunlight striking the edge of a sword. “You are my responsibility. And I will come for you. I will come for you both.”

 _Gîlríon._

 _He wants Gîlríon._

That thought sent him reeling back into himself with a wordless, panicked cry, and he felt himself held, a hand on his breast, his brow. Over his head a thunder of rage whip-cracked full into Glorfindel's face, which flamed in response, and a brush of erotic gold drew a last, dry-heaving orgasm from his loins.

 _Legolas. Listen to me._

A storm broke about him, washed him up on the strand of consciousness, and he found himself looking up at Vanimórë. He was lying, he realized, with his head on Maglor's lap. It was impossible for him to blush further, and yet he did...His testicles ached, and he was as sore as if all three of them had possessed him, Vanimórë, Maglor and Glorfindel, but that last was impossible, and he was dressed, save for the lacings of his breeches. But, oh! the terrible ecstasy of it!

“What...happened?” He could not control the tremor in his voice. Raising himself, he looked quickly to where Gîl' lay, awake now, eyes very bright. They were the same blue as Glorfindel's, he thought, and his heart twisted again.

“Glorfindel seems to have decided he should reach to thee.” Vanimórë frowned but not, Legolas thought, at him. “It took him long enough. ”

“He said he would come for me.” Legolas clutched at his hand. “He wants Gîl'. He...” The too, too much struck him speechless. Something inside him broke, and the tears came, fast and hot. They were both there, Maglor at his back, Vanimórë holding him, their touches strong, gentle.

“Do not fear,” Vanimórë touched his cheek. “He is still far away, and thou art under my protection.”

“It is Gîl', is it not?” Legolas choked. “He feels Gîl'.” He turned from the separate embraces to gather his son to him. This was how a hunted animal must feel, an animal that had saved something precious from the hunters, and would soon have it torn away.  
“I cannot let...I _cannot._ ”

“No-one will take Gîl' from thee.” Vanimórë held a cup to his lips. Dorwinion, unwatered, smelling of autumn and oblivion. Legolas swallowed, closing his eyes, drank again. Hands smoothed his hair, and he hiccoughed a sob.  
“Glorfindel would not separate thee from thy son.”

“Then what does he want with me?” Legolas' eyes flashed open at Vanimórë's assurance, and he felt again the blinding pleasure and pain of being so thoroughly mastered. Tangles of contradiction knotted in his throat.  
“He...did you know?”

“I knew,” Vanimórë said. “I did not wish to tell thee yet. But many, many leagues separate Glorfindel from us. Now rest. _I_ will speak to Glorfindel.” Threat and reassurance both lay on the words.

Legolas swallowed more wine, a haze of relaxation spreading from his stomach through all his tense muscles. Against the pull of the Dorwinion tide, he whispered, “Help me.”

“Always, my dear.”

Maglor took Gîl' from him, and Legolas melted into Vanimórë's arms as if boneless. Over the two golden heads, silver and violet eyes met. Only when both Legolas and his son were laid down, did Vanimórë speak silently.  
 _It is irresistible is it not, innocence?_

Maglor's skin was so impermeably white that any color stood out like paint, but he responded, through the flush. _I know him: Glorfindel._

 _Well, thou art Noldorin, and Glorfindel is famed among the Eldar._  
Vanimórë had sensed Maglor's astonished recognition when Glorfindel reached out to touch Legolas' soul, but it had not, as Vanimórë feared, acted the catalyst that would unravel Dana's forgetfulness. Rather, it was as if he saw a face long forgotten, and was striving to remember. Dana's barriers still held, but like the woman herself after a night of love, she was unwinding her limbs to go about her business. What in the _Hells_ was he going to do when Maglor's memories returned?

 _I am Noldo._ Maglor's mind-voice was strained. _But where I am..._ He made a gesture in the air. _There is only blood. Fire. Dana lead me to thee, as she lead Legolas. Now tell me._ His eyes dropped to Legolas. _Dana told me only that he is a prince banished from his home for becoming pregnant, and I heard little more when I visited thy house with her. But I have sworn to protect him._

Vanimórë handed him the winecup and told him succinctly, unable to flatten the spikes of rage that stabbed through his tone. When he finished, Maglor was still as an icon, only his eyes burning like molten lead.

 _And he means to have Legolas and Gîl'?_ he asked flatly.

 _Yes. His soul is bonded to Gîl', I felt it at the birth._

A flinch crossed Maglor's face, but he said, _That matters nothing. The child does not know him. He knows Legolas, and is loved by him. And what life would Legolas have?_

 _None, if there is no love. But he cannot stay with me._ He lifted a hand to forestall the imminent protest. _My city lies in the south. It is a place of great wealth and some beauty. Five hundred years ago I cleansed the temple and dedicated it to Dana. I like to think Sud Sicanna is a more enlightened city than many, but withal it is still a city in a desert. What life would Legolas have_ there? _He is a child of the ancient woods. He would be nothing more in Sud Sicanna than the birds my seraglio women keep in gilt cages. He would be envied and hated, he and his son, and politics is very...physical in Sud Sicanna. I do not know if even I could keep him safe without I lock him away like the treasures brought to me from faraway lands, and if I did so, I think he would not live long._

 _And there are other reasons,_ he thought privately. _Hells, what a coil._

 _Then there must be some other way,_ Maglor said. _Some restitution for him. A way for him to return home._

 _Only Glorfindel can make restitution. Glorfindel and Thranduil. Dost thou not see Legolas wound?_

 _I see it._

 _That is what brought thee to the tent, was it not? Not to speak to me, but because thou thyself bear a wound, and recognize the pain in Legolas. It is why thou didst swear to protect him._

 _I do not know why I came here._ Maglor's sternness grew cracks. He rose, thrusting back his hair, looked away. _No. I do. For both of thee._

Vanimórë put up his brows, though Maglor did not see it. He moved to stand behind the discomfited Fëanorion, gathering the mass of his hair.

 _Why wert thou with me in the darkness?_ The shiver ran from Maglor's head to his heels.

 _Because some-one had to be._ Vanimórë began to braid, pulling lightly to draw the thickness into manageable handfuls.

 _He thought I had come to tell him we were lovers, and he had no place here._ Maglor tensed his neck against the pressure.

Pausing, Vanimórë stared at Legolas. He had thought, wrongly it seemed, that his attention and care had given the prince some small sense of self-worth. He swore at himself. It would take longer than one season, if it could be done at all.

 _Then I am grateful thou didst desire him._

 _And thou wert there with us; that, I did not expect._

Maglor's flesh radiated an intense heat, like fever. Vanimórë smiled at the back of his head, felt the wryness in his mouth.  
 _I have learned to take pleasure when it comes. And thou didst look so inviting together._ He tied off the end of the braid, and Maglor slowly turned, eyes filled with puzzlement and arousal.  
 _It would benefit Legolas to be desired,_ Vanimórë continued. _And I do not want him to believe himself indebted to me, to think he has to pay me in the coin of his body._

“Thou art truly strange,” Maglor said aloud, but quietly. Almost it seemed he would laugh.

“Am I?” Vanimórë did laugh, hearing the underscore of bitterness. “Then consider this: Only with the freedom to choose is there truth in love.”

The Fëanorion searched his face. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “But it seems to me Legolas can never truly have that freedom, with his child bound to Glorfindel – ” And he stopped, tasting the name with his tongue, as if memory would arise from it. There came an infinitesimal head-shake. “And his indebtedness to thee, which yes, he does feel.”

“And to thee, for saving his life? Are we not all indebted, one way or another? But for him,” he looked at Legolas. “I think freedom is not what he truly wants. He responds to mastery, and what Glorfindel did to him has confused and shamed him utterly, when it could have been glorious. And, ah! he does tempt it, does he not?”

A frisson cracked between them, invisible, potent.

 _Were he alone, couldst thou not imagine taking him, now, so that he cannot fight, and wakes to thy first stroke, crying out so helplessly?_ Had he not struggled against doing just that, night after night as he watched Legolas' sleep, wholly without defenses, he who had none even when he was awake.  
 _But_ I _am his defense. How could I betray his trust?_

A sudden convulsion of lust dragged Maglor's breath through his lips in a gasp.

 _But not here,_ Vanimórë smiled. _We are an armed camp and lie close together. It would embarrass him, and I will not have that._ Stepping close, he whispered against the still-flushed mouth. “What thou didst was enough – for now.”

“Was it enough for thee?” The black of his pupils had expanded to swallow the silver.

“Anything is enough.”

 _And nothing is ever enough,_ he thought, behind walls. _Could I make thee truly want me, Maglor, not knowing whom I am? Would Legolas even allow me to touch him if he knew who I am?_ His inner smile was acid. He drew away, fraying the mood because he had to.

“Wilt thou wait with him? There are matters I must attend to, and we cannot remain here long.”

“Dana is leaving, I know.” Maglor visibly took command of himself. “So where do we go?”

“Rhovannion is no longer open to me, I think.” Vanimórë turned to the map beside his pallet, picked it up and unrolled it. “I came through Gondor on my way to Szrel Kain as I have no quarrel with the Sea-Kings, nor has Sud Sicanna ever acted the aggressor toward them. I will head south, into North Ithilien.”

Maglor came to his shoulder, studying the map. “I know not these places.” His voice held frustration. “Where do Legolas' kin live?”

“Here,” Vanimórë indicated the Great Wood, and traced his finger west to the line of the Towers of Mist. “Glorfindel dwells in Imladris, a hidden valley somewhere in the mountains, though I know not where precisely. And here,” he unrolled the vellum further. “lies Sud Sicanna.”

Maglor's eyes sharpened, gauging the distances. “Rhovannion,” he murmured, then flashed a glance aside.  
“Why canst thou not go there, now? Because Dhölkan is dead?”

“Cadmon of Rhovannion forms a bulwark against attacks from the East, and has aided Gondor before, but that makes him extremely vulnerable.” Vanimórë met the luminous silver gaze, waiting for the veil to part further with every name, every sifting particle of memory. “I have traded with him in the past, and he was apt for friendship. I told Dhölkan of my intention to visit him. I did not want to take Legolas further from the North than he already was. Dhölkan... _advised_ Cadmon that a show of neutrality would better serve his interests. My own neutrality influenced some of the southron rulers, which did not please the men of the East.”

A nod of understanding. “But why Rhovannion? Didst thou think to return Legolas to his home?”

“No,” Vanimórë said absolutely. “I sent men to the Great Wood, or as close as they could come, and Thranduil will receive a message telling him that I have his youngest son. But unless I received word of Legolas banishment being rescinded I would not give him back into his father's hands.” His teeth snapped together. “I want Glorfindel to see him. See him and love him.”

“And what if he does not?” Maglor hissed. “Rape is an abomination.” And he stopped then, already white skin paling further, so that it became pearlescent. Vanimórë stared at him.

 _He does not know he has a son..._  
In Barad-dûr, there had been nothing in Maglor's tormented mind that suggested marriage or a son, and his thoughts were spilling then, with his life.

 _Dana?_

 _It is true,_ came her voice calmly.

 _Bloody Hells. I know scarce anything of his life. I thought...I do not know, that he fathered a son, left the woman because the Oath compelled him...I never saw it in him._ He spun away from Maglor before he could strike him, flung himself from the tent with a baffled rage that brought his guards to snapping salute, and strode to where the horses were penned, his own great stallion separated from the others, save for Lainiell, who stood beside him companionably.

 _He raped a woman at the Havens of Sirion,_ the Mother told him hardly. _She lived because she forgave him and wanted to bear his son, as Legolas survived because he wished to bear Gîlríon._

 _Why?_ Vanimórë snarled. _I believed Elves were beyond such things._ He shook his head at his own hard-held naievity. Glorfindel, whom he had respected, more, admired, had proved a rapist, and so too had Maglor. _And I, the son of Sauron, have never taken any-one unwilling save perhaps for Maglor._  
Oh, Hells, here he was trying to persuade himself he had not raped Maglor. Was there such a thing as aggressive seduction? He took a deep breath.

 _Why does any man do such things?_ Dana asked. _He saw the Silmaril taken into the sea, his youngest brothers slain. He was quite mad, Vanimórë. He has not been truly sane since Maedhros threw himself to his death in a crevasse of fire. It was all there, in his mind when I found him, much of it buried under the detritus of anguish. The rape was one of those things, done in grief and insanity. He knows what he did, under it all, and hates himself for it._

 _Yea, how are the mighty fallen,_ Vanimórë snapped. _Does grief excuse his actions? Does anything?_

 _Grief is its own punishment, my dear. Peace._ Her mind-tone gathered irrefusable power. _I have tested him myself. His is not the soul of a rapist, those men you put to death in Sud Sicanna, who take dark joy in what they do. He is a man who loves deeply. The woman he offended forgave him long ago. And in her name, so have I. Would I otherwise aid one who so injured one of my daughters?_

With a bitten-off curse Vanimórë turned from the horses toward the city, hidden by the roofs of Tain Gar. A haze of smoke smudged the sky. He folded his arms.

 _This becomes ever more tortuous, Dana. Maglor does not know he is Maglor, and would not know what I was talking about. And when Glorfindel and Tindómion find us, will Tindómion will seek to enact revenge upon Maglor?_

 _There is part of him that wishes to find his father and kill him,_ she admitted.

 _Well, that is...wonderful._ He closed his eyes briefly. _And I know not where to go to keep Legolas and Gîl' safe but Sud Sicanna. I wonder if I dare risk Rhovannion, after all? I doubt the council will reconvene with Dhölkan dead._

 _Vanimórë,_ she warned. _Thou art vulnerable so far from home._

As if her words summoned them, he heard the purposeful thud of hard-ridden horses on the dirt road. The perimeter guards lifted their bows. Over the swirl of dust, Vanimórë saw two riders, lightly armed, with no badge or banner to herald them. They cantered from the road, drawing rein, and each lifted a hand in a gesture of peace.

“We bear a message for the Prince of Sud Sicanna,” one of them called.

“I will hear it.” Vanimórë came forward and the riders bowed in their saddles.

“Siakan.” he looked them over. Both men were attached to Azao of Siakan's personal guard. Vanimórë had seen them on a state visit to Siakan two years ago and here too, in Szrel Kain, bearing the sun-and-dagger insignia of their elite brotherhood. This then, was no official message. Azao and his predecessor had ever been an ally of Vanimórë, whom had acted as a mediator in the sporadic border wars between Siakan and Arysis. Their meeting had revolved around the wisdom of Azao attending Dhölkan's council. Even Sudu Cull, the only city of the Harad that could rival Sud Sicanna, had kept an eye open to Vanimórë's intentions.

“What message would Azao give me?” he asked.

“Sire,” the spokesman said. “There is rioting in the city. Prince Dhölkan was found murdered late yester-eve, the temple attacked and the high priest killed.” The dark eyes gave nothing away. “Rumors fly like battle-crows, and it is known that you rode to the temple ere you left the city.”

“I did.” Vanimórë smiled a little.

“Sire.” The soldier blinked, the only outward sign of inner perturbation. “It is said that you slew Dhölkan and the high priest, desecrating the temple, that it will bring the wrath of the dark gods down upon Szrel Kain. Your allies,” he stressed the last word. “Do not believe you killed Dhölkan, but others will.”

“I did not.” _But I know who did._ Vanimórë considered the advantages attendant upon revealing the assassin, even sending him back to Szrel Kain to face justice, and dismissed it. This was not about the truth. This was politics.

“Tell Prince Azao I appreciate his message.” It was enough, and the men knew it. “Who rules in Szrel Kain?”

“It is reported that Dhölkan's eldest sons have convened to their mansions in the old city, Sire.”

Which meant there would be bloodshed. Which also meant that any or all of them could send soldiers after Vanimórë so as to proclaim themselves innocent of their father's death, unless they needed to keep their warriors close.

 _I am too close to the damned city._

“Wilt thou take food and wine?” he asked.

“We thank you, Sire, but we must return. Our prince hopes to leave this morning as, I think, do other Haradhan princes.”

“That would be wise.” Vanimórë inclined his head as they saluted and wheeled away.

Mún, the captain of the way-camp, crossed to him at the brief gesture.  
“We leave at noon,” Vanimórë said. “But prepare to leave on my order if it becomes necessary we depart sooner.”

Within moments, a subtle change came over the men, a sense of alert purpose. Vanimórë glanced back at the smoke, and guessed that it was not just the temple that had burned.

“Why did you not deny killing Dhölkan, Prince?”

The Northman had come from his tent. Apparently he had been polishing harness, which hung at one shoulder. His light eyes flicked over Vanimórë's shoulder toward Szrel Kain.

“Because it does not matter.”

“True enough,” Sauron agreed, hiding a smile, then, “Prince, do you know this land?”

“I know it well enough.” Vanimórë said. “Dost thou?”

“I know that you must cross two rivers to leave it and if, as I think, you are heading south-west through the Ízdin Hills, the only bridge across the Redvine is at Uldonavan.”

His son's eyes were opaque, dense violet shutters raised over his soul. He gave a brief nod.  
“Dhölkan was a wise ruler,” Sauron went on. “If he was not loved, he yet made Szrel Kain prosperous and like you, was no puppet of the black temples.” And who could blame him? They were not as they had been, and nothing could compare to the blood-black magnificence of Utumno or Angband.

“I do not mean to pass through Uldonavan,” Vanimórë said. “Knowest thou of the Wolf-road?”

Sauron did. His brows rose.  
“But do you not make yourself appear guilty, by using such a route?”

“Why would I care for that?” And Sauron heard the salt of indifference all through his tone. However much Vanimórë protested he was not like Sauron, he was as unconcerned with public opinion of his actions. “They already think me guilty, though I was nowhere near the palace when Dhölkan was killed. But when has the truth ever mattered? They want to point the finger of blame at some-one, and I _did_ kill the high priest. I will not risk being penned in Uldonavan. Be ready to leave.” He walked away and Sauron watched his arrogant, straight back until it vanished among the tents.

The Wolf-road through the Ízdin Mountains, which lead, if one could traverse it – and Sauron had no doubt that his son could and would – out onto the Dor Rhûnan, the land north of Mordor...

~~~

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Quote from Esteliel's 'Ethuil'waew.
> 
> Esteliel created this simply _lovely_ image of Legolas, called 'Prayer.'  
>  As you may have noticed, my Elves have hair to their lower thighs or knees and about a third as thick again as the thickest hair a Mortal would ever have. I was so disappointed at the mingy hair lengths Peter Jackson gave his film Elves. That's not long hair. O_o. _This_ is long hair. :D.  
>  I love the hair Esteliel creates for her images. d;-)


	22. ~ The Storm and the Swan ~

  
  
  
  
**The Storm and The Swan.**   
  
  
  
  
Celeirdúr moved away from the fire, now being allowed to burn down as dawn approached. The celebratory feast had passed in music, wine and laughter. A sense of relief permeated the kingdom, not only at his homecoming, but at the cessation of the long war, and he had been greeted at the western borders by his father and the Lords of the Wood as if he were a hero. He had suffered not even the mildest private reprimand from the king; only Galuron and the warriors who ran with him had seemed irked. He had watched, as the feast progressed, those who were most opposed to the peace, their quiet, vehement conversations, the flash of their eyes in the firelight, but if Thranduil were one of them, he concealed it well. Crowned with wild roses, honeysuckle and sweet ivy, the king shared his silver bowl of Red Harvest with Celeirdúr, and questioned him again on his treatment by the Imladrians'. There was a brittle, regal poise to Thranduil that night, and it took Celeirdúr some time to realize what lay under it.   
  
_He feared that I bore the curse, even though he knows I do not. He thought of rape, and was afraid._   
  
But Thranduil's fear was all for him, not for Legolas, whose name Celeirdúr had not heard spoken in all the days riding from the border, not through the long festal night. The prince felt as if he were in some odd dream where Legolas had never even been born, so utterly was he forgotten. But no, he thought now. He was _not_ forgotten, not by any-one, and certainly not by Thranduil, despite his silence on the matter, yet what could Celeirdúr himself do, without revealing everything he knew, and shattering this new, fragile peace?   
  
Putting aside his friends, he walked across the ward and into the halls, warm lamplight drawing out the colors of the tapestries, running gold in the carvings that twined up wall and pillar. A servant had left light in his rooms. He crossed the antechamber into the bedroom, unfastening the necklace that his father had presented him with before the feast. It was not Elven make, he thought, looking at the skillful barbaric workmanship; the deep fire of rubies set in white-gold. Perhaps it had come north with the traders. Idly he turned it, saw the stamp of the goldsmith: two trees with frond-like leaves, the trunks curving into slim blades, letters stamped each side in some alien alphabet. He let it fall into the coffer and stared at nothing. Thranduil was never niggardly, but what had Legolas ever been given? The last time Celeirdúr had seen him, he was dressed simply as one of the young horse guards and wore no chain or ring or brooch. More importantly, he had not been given a child's due: love.   
  
_Legolas._   
  
Abruptly, he walked out. Before Legolas had been sent from the halls, he had slept along this passage in the Royal Wing, in pleasant chambers that Celeirdúr had sometimes visited. Sometimes. He felt he had to _know,_ to prove to himself that his younger brother had indeed once lived.   
  
The air-shafts prevented damp, but nevertheless there was an air of desuetude, a faint scent of long-dead herbs. The light from the hall showed hassocks, a settle of pine, bare of cushions. Celeirdúr moved into the bedchamber; again, save for the furniture, it might never have been used. There was nothing to show that Legolas had slept here.   
  
Sorrow and anger stroked up his spine like a whip. Legolas and Elvýr...so alike, both blameless. One loved and mourned, the other made a vessel into which Thranduil had poured all his guilt and grief. Legolas, small, increasingly shy, had been easy to ignore – easy and impossible. As he grew, Thranduil could hardly bear to look at him, and had sent him away. Whether the king told himself that it was for the best, that Legolas would be safe and useful, hardly mattered.   
_The truth is,_ adar, _that you did not want to see him, to see_ Elvýr _in him. Legolas hurt you by being what he was, by what lies within him. The thought of him becoming a warrior, of being raped by orcs as Elvýr was...And so you put him out of sight. What did you mean to do when he was grown?_   
  
He knew his father's grief, had tasted it too keenly himself, and mourned Elvýr. He had held Thranduil once when he wept.   
  
_Are there no tears left for Legolas,_ adar? _Is he truly dead to you? But he is not dead. He is held by Sauron's son._   
  
Celeirdúr could still scarce believe it. How could he _not_ tell Thranduil of Legolas' fate?   
And how could he? Damn Glorfindel to the Dark! This had gone beyond mending. Perhaps it had been beyond mending since Legolas was born.   
  
And yet...   
  
_Am I a prince of the Great Wood only, or am I a brother? Can I not be both?_

~~~

  
  
Thranduil called him to council at noon. After Celeirdúr dressed, he hesitated over the choice of jewelry. He did not want to wear that foreign-made chain, a gift of homecoming so generously bestowed, when he had done nought to deserve it, but was that not mere pettiness? Lifting the heavy gold, he clasped it about his throat. The rubies glowered like fiery blood against the deep green of his tunic.   
  
_But blood is worth more._   
  
Crossing the floor of the council chamber to give his father the kiss of greeting, Celeirdúr noted those present, and considered them. There was Brongalen, survivor of Dagorlad and the siege of Barad-dûr, pure Silvan. His lordship lay south, amidst the great oaks, and secret pools. Next to him sat Certhech from the East Forest, whose spear was hung with black feathers, then Gwaewind of the Westwood, clever and tempestuous, and lastly Bainalph, prince of Alphgarth. Hair as milk-white and face as fair as his name, he was the sole survivor of the Iathrim house of Cúalph *, his father kin to Elu Thingol, his mother one of Melian's court.   
  
Bainalph had been a child when his father died on Dagorlad and, when he reached maturity his mother, had asked for escort to the haven of Edhellond.   
This was not a journey many of the Silvan Elves ever made; they were rooted to Middle-earth and believed that, living or houseless, they belonged there. Bainalph had gone with her but returned to the forest, and his prowess as a warrior became as legendary as his beauty.   
To look at the lords gathered, one might have guessed fey Brongalen would speak loudest against the peace and Bainalph to favor it. Not so. Bainalph never spoke loudly but he, like Thranduil, had been raised on tales of the beauty and fall of Doriath, and his hatred of the _Golodhrim_ ran as deep as the king's. Yet the two were not close, and Celeirdúr had often wondered if there were some old rivalry between the Houses of Oropher and Cúalph. Or perhaps it was that Bainalph's parents had clung to their Sindarin origins and titles, had not adopted the Silvan customs as most of the Iathrim refugees had. But Thranduil had been friend to the Cualphii until Bainalph took his father's honours. Howbeit, Bainalph, whose home lay on the Forest River where it entered the woods, where the swans whose name he bore gathered under the willows, had earned the title of prince, and none disputed it.   
  
They called it the Blood Winter, when starving hordes of orcs had poured from the mountains, and fallen on Bainalph's people. They were few, and none were kin to him, but Bainalph had held until Thranduil's warriors came. The beautiful white swan had been black from head to heels with orc-blood, and Celeirdúr had only recognized him by his eyes. He still held the north-west of the realm against any incursions, and was the first to know of orcs stirring in the foothills. A good ally in battle but Thranduil's coolness toward him had influenced Celeirdúr, and he had never sought to make Bainalph a friend. Why was he on the council, Celeirdúr had once asked, and the king had said that he, like his father, had earned it through his deeds, but there was no doubt that Thranduil preferred he keep to Alphgarth, which Bainalph seemed more than happy to do.   
No, Celeirdúr had no allies here. So be it.   
  
Thranduil, after asking each Lord for a report from their lands, spoke of patrols. None henceforth were to cross the Anduin, he said, although the Greenwood would continue to patrol the eastern shore. _Not you,_ his cool blue look told Celeirdúr. And, he continued, since this must be a time of rebuilding and enriching the kingdom, it was time that his oldest son marry.   
  
Stillness fell on the chamber, pierced only by the gentle hiss of the cressets as they burned, shedding a faint perfume into the air. Bainalph broke it by languidly pushing a handful of braids over one shoulder. The amber spheres wound into scores of slender plaits chimed musically. Celeirdúr wondered if he had done it purposefully, but those gilt-green eyes were as opaque as always.   
  
_Enriching the kingdom._ This was the closest Thranduil was going to come to admitting he had lost his youngest son. Celeirdúr's fingers dug into the table. He drew his breath to speak, eyes fixed upon the king.   
  
There came a rap on the doors. Thranduil raised his brows in annoyance, but gestured to the guard there, who opened them. The warriors entered and came to the table, bowing.   
  
“Sire, we beg pardon for the interruption.”   
  
“Annúnael, Bellaew.” The king bade them rise. “No doubt you have good reason. Speak.”   
  
“We come from Burh Stane.”   
  
Burh Stane, one of the Northmens' villages, thought Celeirdúr, but to the East of the Greenwood, not the West. For no reason, his breath stopped in his throat.   
  
“Go on.” But Thranduil's hands too, flattened on the smooth wood.   
  
“They were visited by a company of soldiers, Sire, but days ago.” As he spoke, Annúnael drew a flat pouch from his jerkin, and handed it across the table. “The Men were southrons, though they spoke the Common Tongue, and they were not wolfsheads, the headman said. They only asked that this be somehow brought to you Sire, to Thranduil, King in the Great Wood.”   
  
Thranduil loosed the knots and drew out a folded square of vellum. It was sealed in dark wax and the insignia caught a run of light. Celeirdúr's heart leaped to that voiceless place in his throat and throbbed there. Two slim-stemmed trees curving into swords.   
And Thranduil went still. The very flames of the cressets seemed to freeze in their dance, and the gems of the king's crown caught and held motionless blazes.   
  
Celeirdúr watched as a sudden movement of his father's hand smashed everything apart, sent a bowl of golden cyser flying against the wall. Within that moment, Celeirdúr moved to Thranduil's side. The lettering on the vellum was Sindarin.   
  
_Thranduil Oropherion, King of the Elves of Eryn Lasgalen, I bid thee greeting.  
  
My Lord,   
Fate has decreed that thy youngest son fall into my hands. From what I have learned from Legolas, he was banished from his home for the grevious crime of getting pregnant. I have heard of this gift_ – heavily underlined _– the males of thy bloodline bear, and if I did not, the evidence is before me. I hope that by the time this letter reaches thee, thy son will have been safely delivered of a child.  
  
Legolas has not been well, though I believe that this is caused by his body adjusting to childbearing. But some wounds go deeper than the body, Thranduil, as I am sure thou knowest.   
  
I am sure thou wilt know whom I am when I tell thee that I was a prisoner of Gil-galad for seven years in Mordor. A _ Golodhrim _thrall of Sauron, they assumed. I did not disabuse them. It would be so much simpler were it true. Deny the truth of this also, if thou wilt: I am the son of Sauron, though my mother was Elven.  
I will cherish and protect thine own son, Thranduil, and his child, until my father comes again. _   
  
The brief letter ended,   
_Vanimórë Gorthaurion. Prince of Sud Sicanna. Son and Slave of Sauron, Lord of Mordor._   
  
“Leave me.” Thranduil spoke through white lips. “All of you.”   
  
No-one disobeyed the king when he spoke thus, though rarely had any heard that tone. It belonged to the dagger that took Elvýr's life, the silence of the sky staring down on his wife's broken body.   
  
“ _Adar,_ Legolas is – ”   
  
Thranduil whipped round, and Celeirdúr found himself facing the warrior, not the king, not his father. His back slammed against the wall. Thranduil's hand twisted in the ruby chain, and he half-lifted, half-pulled Celeirdúr toward the door.   
  
Some-one shouted, “Thranduil!”   
  
A link broke, the chain slithered to the ground, and Celeirdúr regained his balance, breaking away.   
  
“I was caught near Imladris because I was searching for _Legolas_!” he shouted. “I was a fool. I obeyed your unspoken edicts and left it far too late. I should have searched for him the moment I learned you had banished him!”   
  
“Celeirdúr,” the same voice warned, him. He recognized it and shook off Bainalph's hand, even as his father bit chips of ice and spat them forth, violence behind them like an advancing army.  
“Legolas is anathema to me and my house. His name is expunged from the genealogies of the Greenwood. _He does not exist!_ ”   
  
There was such pain there, such pain. Celeirdúr felt it, and lifted his chin to meet its weight.   
  
“It seems that Sauron owns _his_ son.”   
  
The breath hissed in through Thranduil's lips.   
“ _That,_ ” he gestured to the vellum. “is a rank lie.”   
  
“It is no lie. They know of him in Imladris.” Or they did now. “He was a prisoner of _their_ king.”   
  
“I care nought for what lies the _Golodhrim_ have poured in your ears!” They were face to face again now, Thranduil's eyes almost wiped of rationality, a feral blaze of winter. “Now _leave!_ ”   
It was like a whip across Celeirdúr's face. Again, he felt the hand on his arm, stronger this time, heard the murmur of his name.   
  
“I know, _adar_.” He held his father's gaze like a wrestler holds an opponent. “I know.” He allowed himself to be drawn away, step by step. “But Legolas is my brother. And he lives.” Anger and anguish scalded his throat and he forced words through it. “Wed, say you? I think not! What if my sons inherited this curse? I will not be forced to explain to them why their grandsire despises them!”   
  
The passage seemed full of people. Thranduil's command had sent the border guards to the door, and the argument had been heard in the hallway beyond. It was as silent as a house that waits for news of a battle. No-one spoke as Celeirdúr strode past them. Anger echoed in the pillars and chimed in the walls.   
  
Again, the touch on his arm guided him, until he found himself in a strange room, green and white hangings brightening the walls. He turned, puzzled, as Bainalph walked to a side-table, lifted a pitcher of wine from a bowl of snow, and poured two cups. Celeirdúr took one and drank.   
  
“My thanks,” he said stiffly.   
  
“Sit.” Bainalph gestured to a cushioned settle, and Celeirdúr sank down, closing his eyes briefly, then opening them to meet the reprimand a Lord of the Council was entitled to give him. He would not retract one word and was still aching to fight. He had said something, and it was not enough. He had never said or done enough.   
  
“Peace, Prince.” Bainalph sat gracefully beside him, tiny amber beads ringing. Sindarin affectation, some called it, though never to the Swan's lovely face, and it was a fashion Thranduil and his sons wore at times.   
Celeirdúr was in no mood to be appeased by the sweet-toned voice.  
“My brother...No-one spoke of him then or after. No-one.”   
  
“Surely the king did, when you asked what had become of him?” Bainalph lifted delicate brows.   
  
“Of course.” Impatiently, Celeirdúr came to his feet. “He told me Legolas was banished, and why, and said the matter was ended.”   
  
Bainalph looked at him for a moment, and then he too rose.  
“Legolas ceased to exist when his banishment was pronounced, and thus people do not speak of him – ”   
  
The blow rocked him backward with a clash-chime of the beaded plaits, and left a red mark on his fair skin, but he gathered himself quick as a snake, and caught the next one. His elegance was deceptive, as many a warrior had discovered when sparring.   
  
“ – _before the king,_ ” he continued, eyes glittering gold-and-green a hand-span from Celeirdúr's. “whose word is law. _Or_ his family.”   
  
“On pain of banishment?” The words came bitter as oak-apples.   
  
Bainalph loosed his wrist. “Thranduil changed when Elvýr...died.” A tiny pause before the last word. “And when the queen was gone –” He turned and poured more wine for them both. Celeirdúr's jaw clenched.   
  
“Sing me a lay I do not know, Cúalphii.”   
  
“Very well then; I will.” Bainalph paused, and his voice did indeed take the quality of a bard. “What you think of as a curse on your bloodline, the ability for men to get with child, would you know the truth of it? Would you hear the story my mother told me?”   
  
The cat-like eyes held Celeirdúr's. A scent of the summer forest breathed down through the air shafts and sent the cressets flickering.   
  
“What, then?”   
  
“My mother knew the first two men, your own progenitors, who were given the gift.” Bainalph tilted his head. “No, I am not puffing off my heritage, _Prince._ It is yours also, forget it not. Uirephíl served Melian before Lúthien walked the white flowers of Doriath. Your bloodline carries a gift, not a curse.”   
  
“That is a lie.” Celeirdúr's throat dried, and he found himself drinking the fresh wine. “What happened to Elvýr was no _gift._ ” He turned his head away. The horror never lost its edge.   
  
“Truly, for he was raped by orcs, as has happened no doubt to many women, both Elf and Mortal, over the ages. But had he given birth to his mate's child, would it not have been miraculous and wonderful?”   
  
The memory of Elvýr, mad with agony and poison, slammed Celeirdúr's eyes shut.   
“If not for this _gift,_ Elvýr would still be alive. I would have a mother, and three brothers, and a father whole in spirit !”   
  
“The evil done to your brother does not negate the gift,” Bainalph said somberly. “The two warriors who first bore it, loved one another so well, and served Doriath so truly, that Melian prayed for them to be able to have children. My mother was there, Celeirdúr. She said there was a power in the earth and trees, the starlight over the glade. And thus did it come to pass. Within one of the warrior's bodies a miracle took place so that, I was told, he came to have the inner mysteries of a woman, hidden until such times as a child began to grow. And there was joy in Menegroth when the first child of that love was born.”   
  
_There was no joy here. Only the screaming, the pain, and my father coming from Elvýr's chamber with a face like ice, and grief a black fire about him._  
He had never heard the tale. It was not to be spoken of, like Elvýr, like Legolas, it was not spoken of.   
  
_Legolas has a child now, unless he died. Glorfindel's child._ Again, he cursed Glorfindel's name.   
  
“Is this why my father does not like you?” he asked harshly. He had abandoned all pretense of diplomacy in the council chamber. “Because you consider this curse upon our house a gift?” It would certainly explain Thranduil's attitude toward Bainalph.   
  
“One of the reasons.” Bainalph murmured. “And now you do look so like your father.”   
  
“I love my father.” _And I want to continue to love him._ “And I owe him obedience, both as a son and his heir, but he was wrong to banish Legolas.” What did it matter what he said now? He had made his feelings plain enough, and before witnesses.   
  
“Your father is a great king, as Oropher was before him. No-one denies it, but yes,” Bainalph agreed. “he is wrong. I went to him myself, when I learned of it. Yes, you are like him in so many ways.” He touched his face, lips forming a rueful moue. “He too, struck me.”   
  
Celeirdúr stared. “Why would you even care what happened to my brother?”   
  
“Why do you not ask yourself how could any-one _not_ care?” Bainalph moved to one of the wall-hangings, a profusion of white flowers on a field of green, and ran his fingers over it. “ _Niphredil,_ ” he murmured. “ _Beyond the sea,_ my mother and father would say at whiles. It was their promise to one another, to meet in Valinor if Middle-earth separated them. My mother was as strong as sword-steel, and she loved me, but her love for my father, and he for her, was ancient and powerful.” He turned. “My home is the Greenwood, and I told her that I had no desire to leave it, but I knew _she_ had to. She would never have faded, but would have become as stone. And so, I know loneliness, and I saw it in Legolas. I asked the king to let me take him to Alphgarth. I would have trained him in all the arts a prince should know, and cared for him.”   
  
Thranduil had said nothing about that offer. Celeirdúr shook his head.   
  
“Alphgarth is too close to the borders,” he said. “It would not have been safe.”  
Which would have been the perfect excuse, had the king needed one, but Thranduil was not a man who deigned to use excuses. And though Alphgarth was a border fortress, it had gained a reputation. The orcs had names for those they feared among the Greenwood Elves, and they called Bainalph the _White Death,_ trespassing on his lands at their peril. The scion of House Cúalph presided over a peaceful and cultured court, Celeirdúr knew. No, Thranduil's objection would have been rooted in different soil; Bainalph was known to take lovers lightly, easily, and Thranduil would not have trusted him with an impressionable youth.   
  
“I will not point out that he was taken not far from the king's halls.”   
  
“And I thank you for not pointing it out,” Celeirdúr grated. He needed to leave, to _think._ But he had spent all his captivity in Imladris thinking, and had well-nigh driven himself mad. There was no answer, save the one he could not accept and had to: that Legolas had ceased to exist to his father. He wondered where Glorfindel was, where Legolas was. Somewhere in the East. His hands curled into fists. In the East, with the Son of Sauron.   
  
_Not all servants of Sauron are willing or evil, and least of all Vanimórë._   
Glorfindel's words. To the Hells with Glorfindel's words! Treating with him had been the single most difficult task in Celeirdúr's life, yet he had forced down the murder in his heart to tell him all he knew of the traders who came up from the Sea of Rhun.   
  
_This has gone far enough._   
  
He turned toward the door.   
  
_Glorfindel is doing what I should be doing._   
  
Bainalph said, as if it were hardly important, “You know that I made one of the escort that took my lady-mother to Edhellond.”   
  
_Prince of Sud Sicanna._ Where was Sud Sicanna? The soldiers who had brought the message to Burh Stane were southron. The people of the vils** were sharp-eyed and curious. He set his hand on the door handle.   
  
“It lies beyond Gondor. Have you ever been in the south?”   
  
Celeirdúr spun angrily. “You must know I have not. Now, if you will excuse me, my thanks for the wine, and what you have told me. I know not what to think of it, but I will consider it.”   
  
Bainalph regarded him with an amused expression. “Perhaps a ride would help to clear your mind. Would you like a companion?”   
  
“It is kind in you, but no, I need solitude.”   
  
“A thousand leagues of it?”   
  
“I beg your pardon?” Celeirdúr willed his face to calm blankness.   
  
“There are times one must do what is right, regardless of the consequences.” Bainalph said, and laid both hands on Celeirdúr's shoulders. Who shrugged away.  
“Pray spare me your pious mouthings,” he snapped. “You say you went to my father when Legolas was banished. Very well, but after he struck you, you said no more, and returned to Alphgarth, and I heard you say nothing just now!”   
  
At that Bainalph's lacquered serenity cracked, and Celeirdúr saw the warrior beneath, ice-white and lethal.   
  
“Damn you,” he enunciated distinctly. “Do you think your father's displeasure, even his fist, would be enough to cow me? I _have_ challenged his judgment on Legolas more than once. The last time he bade me be gone from the court, and not to return until I was summoned to council, which was this morning, and only because I hold the north-western border.” He spun away, hair ringing musically. “He accused me of wanting Legolas at Alphgarth to seduce him, to impregnate him, thereby getting an heir for House Cúalph, and also mingling my blood with the Royal House of Oropher, forcing a marriage that united us and increased my power.”   
  
“And was that your plan?” Celeirdúr asked grimly.   
  
“Legolas was hardly more than a child.” Bainalph leaned back against the woven _niphredil,_ and his look was contemptuous. “You are indeed like your father. You both would make fair into foul in your minds. And while we stand here arguing, Legolas lies in the hands of the son of Sauron.”   
  
“You _read_ that?”   
  
“The king made no effort to cover the letter. The whole court will know by the evening. And if you do not go soon, your father will prevent it. He cannot afford to lose another son.”   
  
And that was quite true. “Then you will not tell him?” Celeirdúr turned again to the door.   
  
“I will not be here to tell him. I am coming with you.” Bainalph smiled mockingly. “I _would_ have offered for Legolas you see, and yes, I should have done more. So should you. It is past time for us to try and rectify our mistakes.”   
  
“You will never be welcomed back,” Celeirdúr warned. He did not know if he himself would, though as crown-prince, Thranduil would probably forgive him, but at the moment, he was not sure if he wanted forgiveness.   
“You risk everything. You will be banished as well as Legolas, and lose Alphgarth.”   
  
Bainalph's eyes flashed. “Blood and Beauty.” He quoted the motto of his House sardonically. “I could hold the north-west, I could fight and bleed for the Greenwood, but to desire the House of Oropher was presumption because I knew the truth of the gift his bloodline bore, and did not see it as a curse, even after Elvýr's death.” He straightened, walked to a chest and threw it open. “Perhaps I will have something to say to my banishment if I return.” He flashed a gilt-green look up at Celeirdúr. “Thranduil has gone too far, and I fear if he does not find himself, find the man he was in the wreckage of his soul, find _love,_ he will darken, and become a tyrant to his people.”   
  
Celeirdúr wanted to deny it, and could not. _Adar,_ he cried. _He is right. You must find the heart you possessed before Elvýr and mother died._   
  
“Then it seems,” he said, “we are both about to commit treason.”   
  
“But only,” Bainalph responded. “for love.”   
  
And suddenly Celeirdúr _knew_ , and wondered why he had not seen it before.   
“You love my father.” His voice sounded strange and distant.   
  
“Once,” Bainalph said gently.   
  
“Tell me.” Celeirdúr's voice had almost failed him. “You have to tell me.”   
  
The other smoothed a hand over the doeskin breeches he had lifted from the chest, and seemed to take council with himself. When he spoke, it was with a bitterness that had worn itself into resignation.  
“It did not happen. The king told me it did not happen.” A smile came and went, like a shooting star, brilliant with rue.   
  
“Then tell me what did not happen.”   
_I do not want to know this, and I must if I am to travel with this man._   
  
“When Elvýr died, your parents became estranged for a long time.” Bainelph's eyes met his unblinking, but Celeirdúr sensed that they looked beyond him, into the past. He nodded mutely.   
“It was the autumn before the Blood Winter. The king came to Alphgarth to speak to me about the defenses, the patrols. We all knew there was a hard winter coming down, and the orcs had been too quiet since the attack when Elvýr was raped.”   
  
“Yes. Go on.” Celeirdúr moved to pick up the wine, and proferred the second cup to Bainalph, who sipped, and continued.  
“I had admired your father since I was a child, more than admired, and it hurt me to see him in so much pain, so wounded, yet refusing to share it, let any-one near him. He tried to contain the anguish, and in doing so he closed you out, did he not? All of you, even the queen.”   
  
Yes, he had, but there seemed no way into the citadel Thranduil had constructed about his anguish.   
  
“I was still quite young,” Bainalph murmured. “Or at least naieve enough to believe I could comfort him. He stayed four nights, and on the last a storm came up from the south. I went to his guest chamber.” He closed his eyes. “He was in bed, not asleep, but naked, and when I saw him, I could not speak. And he said nothing, either.”   
  
For no reason, and every reason, Celeirdúr felt himself hardening. He could imagine Bainalph, creamy hair loose to his thighs, gilt-green eyes and sultry mouth, slender and hard-muscled and wanton.   
  
“I let him do everything he wanted.” And the fair skin flushed with the words. “He was cruel, and I wanted it. He hurt me and I _needed_ it. I begged him for more. And he gave it.”   
  
“That is _enough!_ ”   
  
“It was not enough for me.”   
  
Their breathing had become hard and quick, loud in the quiet room.   
“In the morning, I was sore, bruised, and _enraptured_ by him, by what we had shared. But when I saw him later, he turned from me. It was as if he could not bear to look on me. The night had not happened, he said. He had already forgotten it.”   
  
“He was crazed with grief.” Celeirdúr's voice came queerly rough. “He could not have known what he was doing.”   
  
“No doubt you are right,” Bainalph agreed mildly. “That winter, when the orcs attacked, drove after drove, I wanted to die, but I had a duty to my household, and I thought the king would send no aid. He had looked at me with such scorn the morning after. And he did not come himself, but he sent you. That was quite a surprise, I wonder that he trusted me with you.”   
  
“Whatever my father's feelings, he would not have left Alphgarth to fight alone.” Celeirdúr felt sickened and uncomfortable, and had, during the revelation become shockingly hard.   
_Secrets. Things never to be spoken of._   
  
“No.” Bainalph gazed at him, levelly, unflinching. “And after, he made me one of the Council. But he never forgave me, or himself, I think, for that one night. One more thing: he said Legolas had acted _like me._ ”   
  
Celeirdúr lashed out and his open palm cracked against Bainalph's cheek.   
“ _My father?_ ” He almost choked. “He was married! He was _grieving!_ He did not even favor other men! How could you tempt him thus?” This was too much, all of it was too much. He seized a handful of the tiny braids and pulled. “If you had not...he might have been more understanding of Legolas.”   
  
“I know.” Bainalph arched his neck, beautifully submissive. “And that is why I feel mine own guilt, and I will go. With you or alone.”   
  
“I do not want you with me, you cursed wanton!” Celeirdúr was disgusted at himself and Bainalph, his father, at the feelings of betrayal and desire and shame. He released his grip with a curse and strode to the door, flinging it wide.   
  
“Burh Stane. On the night of the new moon.” The words were so quiet even he hardly heard them, and no-one in the passage beyond would have. He left the door open as he strode away, angry enough to convince any observer, angry enough to almost convince himself.

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  * Cúalph ~ Swan Prince.  
> Cúalphii ~ Of the House of Cúalph  
> Alph ~ Swan (Sindarin) Garth ~ An enclosed yard, a courtyard within a cloister, a garden. In this context, _Alphgarth_ would loosely mean Swangarden.
> 
> **Vil/vils ~ A contraction of village, which I've seen used in older historical novels. (It is in the dictionary.)
> 
> Note: I know that at this time in history, the people of Thranduil lived further south, however, bear with me, for this tale Thranduil's Halls are situated where they were in The Hobbit'. The Hobbit also spoke of 'Lords' with Thranduil in the Battle of Five Armies, so I have used that to create some Lords of the Greenwood for this story. Also, at this time, the forest was not so dark, and therefore not every-one lived in/close to the Halls.
> 
> ~~~
> 
>  
> 
> [Map of the Greenwood and its lordships.](http://i276.photobucket.com/albums/kk3/Tindomion_Maglorion/Dark%20prince%20II/Mirkwood2.jpg)


	23. ~ Sea Change ~

**Sea Change.**

  
~ Anduin ran low and laughing over the shoals. Here, the river forked about a spear-shaped islet where a pine grew; a solitary sentinel. Glorfindel and Tindómion reined in.

“It looks shallow enough to wade. We will lead the horses.”  
They were the first words Glorfindel had spoken since that morning, shirring himself from the odd, inward-looking silence into which he had locked himself.

Nothing had changed.  
Something had changed.

When Glorfindel reached out to touch Legolas mind, the effect had shocked Tindómion, for it plunged Glorfindel into something that should not have been possible: The _faerboth._ * It was not unknown to the Fëanorion; he had felt it through his father, hundreds of years ago, though he knew not what had happened to Maglor then, who had pleasured him after torment. And too, he and Gil-galad's love had been so intense it had spilled over into soul-sex at whiles. It was rare, at least on Middle-earth, or so he understood from Glorfindel, and only those with an especially deep or passionate bond might join in such a way. Whatever his feelings for Maglor, Tindómion was linked to him by blood, and his love for Gil-galad was part of the tempestuous weaving that ran between the houses of Fëanor and Fingolfin. But what lay between Glorfindel and Legolas was neither kinship nor love. It was rape, and such an offense should not have been sympathetic to the _faerboth._  
Yet it had happened, and Tindómion had witnessed.  
Glorfindel had burned into sensuality. His head lifted from his hands and his throat arched, lips parted. It was superb and arousing. For a moment his face was transfigured to unearthly beauty; this was surely the Glorfindel of Cristhorn, in all his radiant power. And then his expression changed, arrogance tinged with cruelty, hate, even despair clouded the brightness. There were words on the cusp of Tindómion's consciousness, and then with a physical wrench Glorfindel drew himself away. He was furious and, the Fëanorion thought, stunned.

“Vanimórë,” he snarled. “He meddles in matters that do not concern him. I reached to Legolas, not to him.” He was silent for a moment, then expelled a breath. “The Sinda – Legolas, he was already roused. I startled him, but...” Surprise bloomed again on his face.

“Startled him,” repeated Tindómion flatly. “Yes, I imagine having you crashing into an intimate moment, might well startle any-one.”

“I wanted to – ” For a heartbeat, Glorfindel seemed at a loss. “to talk to him. But then I _felt_ him, as if he were with me.”

“Did you hurt him?”

Cobalt-blue eyes flashed to his. “No. How could I?”

“That depends on what you said to him. You harmed him with your body, you know your mind could harm him equally.” Tindómion would give him no quarter, yet there was such a strange expression on Glorfindel's face, and for all the years he had known him, the Fëanorion could not interpret it. He had, however, seen Glorfindel in the battles of the Last Alliance, when he faced Sauron's Úlairi. That power was far greater than the physical force he would have used so effortlessly to take Legolas Thranduilion and, he doubted not, even more frightening.

“I told him I was coming for him.”

Tindómion slammed a fist against his thigh. “You may not have hurt him, but I wager you frightened him with that!”

“I did not mean to.” Glorfindel's voice was oddly tight. “He should know that I am coming, and Vanimórë seems not disposed to tell him either that or whom _he_ truly is. Would Legolas be so eager to find pleasure with him, if he knew his protector is Sauron's son?”

“But you will not tell him that either, will you?”

“No,” Glorfindel admitted, with a wry curl of his mouth. “It might alarm him into trying to run away with my son. Better that he does not know. Not yet.” He reached for the wineskin. “I do not want him more frightened than he is.”

Tindómion said, “What is it?”

“Something is wrong.” Satisfaction, lingering pleasure, all had gone from Glorfindel's face to be replaced by intensity, as if he were trying to catch a faint sound or scent. “No, not with Legolas or the child. Not, I think, with Vanimórë, but something is wrong there.” He cursed. “And we have so far to go. Let us ride.”

He fell silent then, as he readied the stallion, and Tindómion did not press him again. Perhaps he had felt the residual violence whatever conflict Vanimórë had been involved in. The knowledge that his child was in danger had certainly shaken him. And Tindómion wanted time to think, also.

 _Vanimórë?_ he asked, as he mounted and they rode into the sun.

 _What?_ came the impatient response, as swift as if Tindómion had tapped him upon the shoulder.

 _What happened?_

 _Glorfindel should learn to think a little before descending upon Legolas in that way._

 _He is afraid?_

 _What thinks't thou? He believes Glorfindel threatened him, that he wants the child._

Tindómion frowned. He would say nothing of the _faerboth._  
 _He could have been gentler,_ he agreed. But he thought that the connection had taken Glorfindel as unaware as Legolas, that he had not expected the passion of it. _He is concerned about what is happening there._

There was a long quiet, then the sense of a sigh.  
 _I suppose both of thee should know the situation._ Another pause, and Tindómion saw Glorfindel's attention focus as Vanimórë's thought reached to include him.

~~~

They lead the horses across the shallows of Anduin, feeling for sudden dips, but the water never came higher than their knees. It had been a dry spring and summer. Behind them, the snow-towers of the Hithaeglir floated in sublime blue, beyond, the land rose almost imperceptibly to the lush grassland that lapped the wall of the forest ten leagues hence. Had Vanimórë not told them he was traveling south into Ithilien, the quickest road for them would have been through Eryn Lasgalen, but both Glorfindel and Tindómion knew the chances of them reaching Rhovannion by that route were non-existent.

Since Vanimórë had explained to them what had happened, and what he purposed to do, Glorfindel had been wound taut as a lute-string. He was preparing himself as for battle. Tindómion felt the same pull of stress within himself. That Vanimórë had placed Legolas and the child in such a dangerous situation had robbed Glorfindel of breath for a moment.

 _Thou didst attack a temple of Sauron,_ knowing _that the priest wanted Legolas and my son?_ His cry carried flame.

 _I had no choice other than allow the sacrifice of two innocent women!_ But Tindómion caught the tint of defensiveness in the hurled reply, and Glorfindel pounced upon it.

 _They were in danger, thou damned_ fool! _I thought I could trust thee!_

 _I dared not send Legolas from the city with any of my men. He is safer with me, and although he and his son were afraid, neither were harmed._

Glorfindel drew a long, stressed breath. _They could have been!_

 _Yes._ And then Vanimórë told them the rest.  
He was possibly – in fact, quite probably – accounted an enemy of the city, and was taking a wild, scarce-known road southward.

 _I know these lands,_ he said. _There is some risk, but if any harm comes to Legolas, then it will be because I am dead and all my men around me. I have sworn to protect them._

 _By Ilúvatar's name thou hadst better be dead if harm comes to them,_ Glorfindel warned. _Or thou shalt pay wergild in thine own bastard blood._

 _I have sworn also to protect him from_ thee.  
Vanimórë slammed that gage down with the biting sting of a wasp, and Tindómion saw the odd expression strike across Glorfindel's face again.

 _There is something thou art not telling me,_ he stated then. _What is it? There is a shadow around all of thee._

Vanimórë sounded perplexed. _A shadow?_ Then, more acidulous, _If not I, then perhaps it lies in the memories of those we brought from the temple._

Glorfindel's head shook infinitesimally. Their conversation had become peculiarly fractured after that, as if none of them knew exactly what to say, not from embarrassment or even anger, but a difficulty in communicating what they were feeling. And what use were any words, be they never so eloquent, when so many leagues separated them?

They rode until the stars pushed through the mantle of the darkening sky, and the forest exhaled with the night, so that the faintly moving air smelled of leaves and humus and secret flowers. Tindómion roasted a grouse he had taken that morning, and they ate it with green cresses from the river. Glorfindel evinced little interest in the food, sat with his hands about the wine-cup, staring into the dying fire. He seemed not to hear when Tindómion spoke his name.

“It is not that.” He sounded as if he were speaking to himself. “Memories of cruelty, yes, I felt them, but this is different.”

“Vanimórë did not think aught was amiss.”

“He should,” Glorfindel returned curtly. “Because something is.”

Tindómion waited a moment.  
“You touched the _faerboth._ ” He was equally terse.

The fire leaped.  
“Yes. I know.”

His admittance gave the Fëanorion pause. Glorfindel's face wore the impassive mask of the Captain of Imladris, the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. He wore it in battle and in council, but more and more it was the only expression, even at rest.

 _It truly does unnerve him,_ Tindómion realized.  
“Have you ever experienced it before?”

Glorfindel shook his head, and then from somewhere, behind his inner armor, came a rush of rage.  
“No, I have not. And you need not skirt the issue. Legolas was but a conquest to me. I forgot him within days of leaving the forest, or rather, I put him from my mind. How is it possible I would achieve the union of the _faerboth_ with him?” He looked away. “I did not know it was like that. This is my second life, and I have heard you speak of it, and yet I never known it myself.” His voice lowered as he turned back. “And you know what it means. He is mine.”

“And you care naught for him, save as one to bear you children,” Tindómion reminded him, bristling at the perceived complacency and arrogance of that last statement. “You have said it: you put him out of your mind. Hells, you put the _rape_ out of your mind.”

“And now,” Glorfindel countered, “I have remembered. All of it.” Again that look that Tindómion could not gauge, so unfamiliar and alien was it. “You think I am an egoist to believe that my son was a gift of the Valar. And yet, there is the _faerboth._ I should not have felt it. I know what it is.”

“What then?” Tindómion demanded. “What does it mean to you?”

Glorfindel pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.  
“I do not know, Istelion. But I will, when we find Legolas and my son.”

He said nothing more. The fire died to embers under the vastness of the stars. Once, he glanced at Tindómion, but the words lay on his tongue, unspoken. He could not say what else he had felt within the _faerboth,_ a mind as familiar to him as Tindómion's own. The Fëanorions' had their own unmistakable mental signature. Vanimórë had been with Legolas, but he had not been alone.

 _Vanimórë?_

 _Yes?_

 _How are they?_

 _They sleep._ The answer was cool. _We broke camp and are heading south now, into the hills. But I must rest my men and horses, and Legolas and the babe also._

Glorfindel turned his sword, starlight skimmed down the blade.

 _I have thy pledge._

 _I did not pledge thee, Golden One! But I will keep Legolas and his child safe._

 _Something is amiss there, and I do not know how thou art blind to it._

 _Dost thou speak,_ Vanimórë asked, _of Maglor?_

Tindómion stood motionless in the night. At the name, although it was impossible that he had heard it, his head came around.

 _Then I did feel him. Yes. I thought so._

 _He has forgotten whom he is._

 _What?_ Glorfindel frowned.

 _He has been insane, wandering...he knows he is an Elf, a Noldo, but naught else yet._

 _Tindómion has always believed his father lived. So did I._ He came to his feet, walked some paces from the fire. Rhovadhros, drowsing, lifted his head and nickered in greeting.

 _He saved Legolas life._

The air was warm. Glorfindel felt as if the breath of the Helcaraxë came down from the North. Had death been that close?

 _And he has sworn to protect Legolas and the child._

 _And he was with Legolas also?_ He thrust the sword back into its housing as if it were a heart.

 _The youngster you raped and left like a camp follower at the wayside evokes great passion, Glorfindel._ Vanimórë's voice came very dry. _I hope thou canst outbid Maglor and myself in his affections, or this journey of thine may be all in vain._ Then, almost teasing. _I felt what he did to thee. I hope it troubles thee, Golden One; it is only fair that he torment thy dreams, as thou doth torment his._  


~~~

  
The halls were quiet now, unusually so. The news of the letter had indeed spread, and doubtless was already making its way to the Silvans deep in the south. Another messenger was carrying different, but not unrelated, news north to Alphgarth, to be put into the hands of Bainalph's castellan. Sulluth, captain of Alphgarth's warriors, who had accompanied his Lord to the king's halls, was also entrusted with the information, and had taken leave of Bainalph pale with rage and sorrow.

“You would abandon your people, your home and exile yourself!” he had cried. “You know the king will banish you when he knows where you are gone!”

“He must declare it to my face before his council,” Bainalph said, knowing Sulluth had the truth of it. “And you my friend, will hold Alphgarth for me. If I do not return, I have willed that it pass to you and your wife.” Although that would have to be ratified by the king, and there was no certainty that Sulluth would receive the lordship. House Cúalph was not popular nor favored, for all Bainalph held the north-west border of the realm, but Sulluth and his spouse were both battle-proven and intelligent with no blood-tie to the Cúalphii.  
“And if the king chooses his own man to hold it, all that is mine save Alphgarth itself will be shared among my household.” Bainalph tapped the sealed vellum. “Eludhuin will oversee my bequests.”

At the mention of the Alphgarth castellan, and incidentally his wife, Sulluth said, “Did she know of this aforetime?”

“I did not decide until the council-meeting.”

“My Lord. Bainalph, my _friend,_ this is foolishness of the worse kind! It is madness. You must surely see...” He groped for words, and in the face of Bainalph's silence, whispered, “Do you court death and disgrace?”

“No, Sulluth, I court _justice._ ”

The captain had stared and then raised his chin in the face of Bainalph's implacable calm.  
“We are still your people, my prince, even though it be decreed otherwise. Return to us. If there is to be banishment, it will fall upon us all.”

Bainalph rested a hand on his shoulder, smiling.  
“I thank you,” he said simply, though his heart was very full. Despite his _proclivities,_ as the king would term them, he could evoke loyalty, and was more torn than he would allow Sulluth to see. His people did not deserve to be treated so cavalierly by their lord, but he did not think they would fare ill. Alphgarth was too valuable to be abandoned, and Thranduil knew it. Whatever judgment he passed upon Bainalph would not extend to those who served him, and were he exiled, Bainalph meant to challenge the edict – if he were alive to do so.

There had been no feast the previous night. Bainalph had joined Sulluth and his men, knowing that his mien gave no hint of the plans he wove. He did not see Celeirdúr, but set one of his men to watch the prince's movements, and knew that whatever the turmoil of his thoughts, Celeirdúr had not yet left the forest. Bainalph did not foresee any difficulty in leaving himself, but it could prove more difficult for Celeirdúr. He might be observed after his outburst. Neither would it be of any use for Bainalph to invite Celeirdúr hunting; Thranduil had made it very plain that he wanted no ties, even those of friendship, between his family and House Cúalph. Celeirdúr would have to arrange matters himself, and was quite capable of doing so. But would he, or would the folly of contemplating such a journey shock him to his senses? With a smile, Bainalph remembered the prince's violent strength, but it would not have been prudent to push him further. The smile faded. It had not been _prudent_ to visit the king that long-ago autumn night in Alphgarth, but he had been young then, young and very foolish.

He went about his own preparations serenely. Having often ridden on the trail of orcs, or to the isolated holdings of Men between the Greenwood and the Grey Mountains, Bainalph knew how to travel in the wild. Rolling wool and soft doeskin for his packs, he considered his intention of finding the tracks of the southron soldiers and catching up with them for the simple reason that they knew where they were going. Bainalph had no maps of the south, at least not here, but on returning from Edhellond, he and Eludhuin had drawn one of the long journey, and copied it for the king's library. When he presented it to Thranduil, he had been shown an older map that surprised him, for the wood-Elves had little interest in lands beyond their realm, but the king said he had brought it back from the ruin of the Last Alliance. It had shown Mordor and the East and South, with likely routes the allies of Sauron would use.

“Memories of folly, and too much death.” Thranduil had covered it before Bainalph could properly study it and he had not objected.

There was an unspoken understanding between the Elven-king and the Swan Prince that when the latter came to the halls he would not linger, but while at the court he was, in theory at least, a welcome guest, and might go where he pleased.

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Faerboth ~ Soul-sex. Thank-you so much Esteliel, for finding a word for this. :)


	24. ~ The King's Pleasure ~

The library was quiet when he entered. It was deep night, and many would be outside. Two lanterns hung from wall-sconces near the doors. He lifted one.  
It was not a large room. Bainalph had heard that the library of Elrond of Imladris was extensive, with written histories going back to Valinor, but the Silvans, with the unfading memory of all Elves, had ever been less inclined commit their lives and works to the written word. Yet some had, and Oropher, when he became king, had scribes set down the history of the Sindar of Doriath and the native Silvans alike. The chamber was much like Bainalph's own small library and study, smelling of beeswax, the musty dryness of old parchment, and something else, valley-lily, such as he himself wore, blended with something rarer: orange-blossom oil brought up from warmer lands.  
He raised the lantern so that the light welled out over the reading-table he had thought empty. Thranduil looked as if he had come from his bed. As Bainalph, he wore only a houserobe tied at the waist, exposing long legs and an expanse of hard chest. His hair lay like windrows of late-summer hay, falling loose to the rugs. One hand lay on a map, its corners weighed down with chunks of polished amber, the other held a crumple of vellum. As he looked up his face showed, for an unguarded moment, acute pain and longing, the same look that had once driven Bainalph wordlessly to his bed to offer his body in comfort.

And then it was gone; a play of the light, no more.

 _I must be very careful here._  
Bainalph bowed, hung the lamp back upon its sconce.  
“Excuse me, Sire, I did not mean to interrupt you.”  
Thranduil stared unveiled contempt, and because he would not be driven off, Bainalph crossed the room to the neat shelves, as if he had come to take a book to peruse. He passed close enough to the table to flick a glance at the map. _Dorwinion, Mordor, Dor Rhûnan, Ithilien, Upper Khand..._

The king spoke through clenched teeth.  
“Get out.”

And so to it. Bainalph turned.  
“I would speak as a Lord of your Council, Sire.”

“ _Leave!_ ” Thranduil rose to his feet, violence implicit in his posture. Bainalph did not move. Heat flared in his cheeks. Their interactions had been marked by chill politeness ever since that autumn night, save those times when Bainalph had confronted him regarding Legolas. Thranduil's facade was in truth as thin as cat-ice skinning the edges of a pond in deep winter.

“Pretending that letter is a lie written by a liar does not make it so.”  
But Thranduil did not think it a lie. The map was proof enough of that.  
Dodging the expected blow, Bainalph spun aside, allowed himself to be backed against the heavy table. He could have vaulted it with ease, but chose to brace himself against the lip of the wood with both hands. The king's own slammed down each side of them, trapping him.

“You are no longer of my council,” he hissed.

 _I will certainly not be of the council once I am gone._ But that he did not say.

“What reason will you give the others?” Bainalph could see the pulse beating in Thranduil's throat, smell the perfume and musk of his body.

“That you support a traitor to the realm.”

A disbelieving laugh formed in Bainalph's chest. He arched himself back a little, gazing into the king's eyes, steel-blue in the soft light.  
“Legolas, a traitor? A youth, not even at his majority, a traitor?” It was a goad, and Thranduil reacted. His hands locked around Bainalph's throat, who heard words through the roar in his ears: _wanton, slut, perverted, shameless..._ And then he was gagging, gasping for breath as the king released him. Thranduil's face was a riddle, disgust and horror vying for house-room. He wiped his hands one against the other as if to rid himself of the memory of Bainalph's flesh under them.

“Get out,” he spat. “Get hence from my halls and my realm.”

Bainalph coughed, his body light and afire. “You would exile me, also? You think me a traitor?”

“There are no words for what you are.” The words came oddly, as if dipped out of some forgotten and bitter well. “That I should have a son so similar to _you!_ What curse lies on my house that would force me to take the life of one beloved son, and give me another as depraved as _you!_ But why do I ask?” His laugh was a dry bone. “I _know_. You bought this upon me, you and my own weakness.”

“Curses?” Bainalph's own voice came hoarse, his house-robe had slid off one shoulder. He let it remain so. “Depravity? Weakness? Only in _your_ eyes.”

“Be silent!” Thranduil was so white his hair looked the color of honey.

“Did you witness Legolas and this Man who got him with child? Did you see them together? Then how do know he was depraved?” He was pushing as hard as he could, knowing the cost, _willing_ the king to break, to force him to examine himself and his judgments.  
“And what depravity is there in giving and receiving pleasure, Thranduil? A long night you had me, a _long, wild night,_ and only regretted it _after._ ”

And, as he had purposed and hoped, the king broke.

~~~

Thranduil had not rested for days. He did not realize that his anger permeated the halls like smoke, that his people were quiet. He did not want his councilors about him, nor his servants, and after his eldest son's unconscionable outburst, he did not want Celeirdúr near him either. Food and wine alike had no flavor.

It was true. Legolas had fled, and somehow fallen into the hands of the son of Sauron. Despite his instant denial, he knew in his soul it was true. He remembered the man from Mordor; Silvan archers had captured him and taken him to the high king. They had thought him one of Sauron's Mortal allies, for he had been helmed, his face all but invisible and Thranduil, forced to take his father's crown and leadership on the battlefield, did not want a prisoner of war on his hands. If Gil-galad appointed himself as the leader of the Elven armies, he could deal with such matters. After, Thranduil had learned that the man was _Golodh,_ bound in some way to Sauron's will. It had not surprised him; the _Golodhrim_ had fallen prey to Annatar's wiles in Ost-in-Edhil.  
That the prisoner was the son of Sauron he had never learned. It was a thought so horrific that it beggared belief, but over the years since the Last Alliance, Thranduil had heard of a dark prince in the hot south. Rumor came up from Dorwinion with the traders. He was said to be immortal, a demon or god, but the thrall of Sauron had likewise gone south, and so Thranduil wondered at times if this were the same person. The necklet he had traded bows for – no light thing that, for the bows of the Greenwood were made with love and song and secret ritual, and Men vowed that they never missed their mark – had come, he was told, from a desert city where the dark prince ruled. The men of the lake, knowing Thranduil's appreciation of beautiful gems, had traded the eastern tribesmen for it in their turn, and the king had thought it a fitting homecoming gift for Celeirdúr.  
Celeirdúr, the son of whom he was the most proud. Whom had been captured by the Imladrians because he was searching for _Legolas,_ who had unbeknownst to Thranduil, clearly questioned his brother's exile, and defied the king before his councilors. It was a betrayal. It _hurt._

This night, he had come to the library, and carefully lifted the old map from the drawer where it was stored and mostly forgotten. As he remembered, there were stains upon it, dirt, blood.

Legolas.

He turned the name over in his mind, looked at it from a distance, holding it at arms length from his heart. The one who looked a twin of Elvýr, the child who had seemed to _need_ so much, whose great blue eyes would lift to his imploringly, who would flinch at a sharp word.  
 _What do you want from me?_ Thranduil had wanted to demand. He had nothing to give. The dagger that had taken Elvýr's life had wounded him also, and though it had not slain him, the poison had festered. He had allowed himself to hope when he finally returned to his wife, long after... _that_ night in Alphgarth, unable to bear his guilt. They had both allowed themselves to hope for a little while, as she ripened like a lovely fruit.  
And Legolas was born, with the same curse as Elvýr, a punishment for one night of dreadful lust, of an adulterous union that he felt lingered in his seed, and went into the getting of Legolas.

And oddly, disturbingly, he saw Bainalph in Legolas as the child grew, for Bainalph too had that same overflowing affection, a gaiety like summer rain. Thranduil knew it for what it was: a beckoning, a lewd enticement. So his last-born was Elvýr and Bainalph in one body, and the horror and guilt melded. It was hard even to look at Legolas, impossible to give love or accept it, for if Legolas were encouraged, he would become as Elvýr, would be raped and die, as Bainalph, whose apple-blossom beauty disguised iniquity.  
Thus Thranduil avoided Legolas as much as possible, and when he had been tutored, was maturing into alarming loveliness, sent him away. He would be safe with the horses, and the king's writ went with him. There was no-one in the Greenwood who would have touched Legolas, yet Thranduil was hardly surprised when Bainalph came to the halls for one midsummer feast, and suggested that he take the young prince to Alphgarth.

“It is said that like knows like,” he had sneered. “I would trust _you_ with him? What, do you think to strengthen your ties to my house by bedding him and getting him with child?” The thought of his grandchild bearing Bainalph's tainted blood made him nauseous.

Bainalph raised his slim brows scornfully, though he did not deny it.  
“My court would be kind to him, as would I, and he could learn the arts and skills of a prince under me.”

“He would learn nought under you but vice,” Thranduil snarled, dismissing Bainalph before he could strike that lovely, sinful face. He wondered where the wanton had seen Legolas, and learned that Celeirdúr had taken him to the horses, for Bainalph was loaning one of his stallions for a season. As he had returned to his lands that same day, Thranduil did not pursue the matter. He did consider for a time that it was Bainalph who had dared to touch Legolas, save that the prince would have admitted it. No-one questioned his courage. He had been the only one to challenge Legolas' banishment, and that time Thranduil could not leash his temper. He could not now.  
He had known when the door opened, always overly-aware of Bainalph's presence even in council, and his very flesh heated and prickled as if sensing danger. There was a feeling of dislocation.  
 _That dark autumn..._  
Just so had Bainalph come to his guest-chambers in Alphgarth, naked but for a houserobe and then too, Thranduil had known before he entered, douce* and alluring, (as now) his hair loosed from its tiny braids, and bound into a great loose coil at the nape of his neck. A thousand thousand times the king's sleep, betraying him, had taken him back to that room, that night, to what he had done, what Bainalph begged him to do, and he would wake, the iron erection between his legs demanding release. When the prince came to council, Thranduil felt his traitorous body respond to each graceful move, every intonation of the dulcet voice. It responded now. When his hands went around the creamy throat, when the long lashes drifted shut, he roused fully, not to the thought of murder, but of _power_ over that graceful beauty.

Green-gold eyes, like the sun on a forest stream, so full of _sin._

Without thinking, he slammed Bainalph back against the table. The prince turned at the last moment spreading his arms to arrest his momentum. His night-robe slipped further down one taut-muscled arm. The king tore free the heavy, twisted cord that tied the robe about his waist, and Bainalph was naked, all honed white lines and curves, wisps of hair teasing free of the coil. His breathing came quick and shallow.

“You will not banish me, Thranduil,” he said, and flashed a look over one shoulder. “You cling to your _shame._ And I am your shame, Sire. If I were exiled – ”

Thranduil doubled the cord into a quirt, and Bainalph stiffened and gasped as it fell across his buttocks. So perfect they were, hard and round, the blood blushing into them as the makeshift whip fell again, and again. Moisture sparkled like gold-dust over sinews, down hollowed spine, and Bainalph gasped, began to moan, fingers spread on the table, his head thrown back.

“Please. No. Please.” He sounded as he had then, as if the pain were pushing him into ecstasy, and Thranduil, through the lightning-white roar of hatred at this deviancy, looped the cord about his throat, watched the full lips part in fear, felt the body shiver.

“I want you to scream.” He hardly knew he was speaking. He was a river in flood, the storm-waters of all his madness and rage and shame. Parting the tight buttocks that offered themselves, he felt the slip of oil about the tight entrance. Bainalph had come from another, or come wanting this. The thought rode somewhere above the fury, as Thranduil drove into the hot body in one brutal thrust.  
Bainalph did cry out then. Thranduil withdrew, plunged in again. So _hot,_ clenching his length like a warrior's fist.

“No! No!” And then keening groans, “Ai, Valar, no more, please!” A tress of hair slipped free. Thranduil buried one hand in the coil, wrenched. There was a milky flood, a scent of flowers as all that wealth cascaded down, hiding Bainalph's profile. No. The king wanted to watch his face, every flicker of pain. He pulled out, aching at the loss, seeing himself engorged, nowhere near relief, not yet. Bainalph shuddered, pushed himself upright, turned, and Thranduil saw with an old-remembered twist to his gut, that he too was full, hard. With a sound that could not express his emotions, he hooked one leg behind Bainalph's and brought him down on the rugs.

“Is this not what you like, slut?” He lifted the long thighs, thrust in again. Bainalph's body arched like a bow. His lips were berry-red where he had bitten them, eyes huge, a thin rim of gold about the enlarged pupils.

“ _Please,_ ” he whimpered, and Thranduil took him savagely, watching as his head tossed, as his cries were lost in the stone walls.  
 _This_ was the temptation he had surrendered to after Elvýr's death, in those black years of anguish. For _this_ he had played his wife false, this wanton who welcomed every humiliation Thranduil subjected him to, whose pliant body had allowed him to unleash all his grief, who now writhed on every stroke. Deeper, harder, faster. Bainalph's head rolled slowly from side to side, helpless, face flushed, sheeted with desperation. A tear bled down, blotted by his hair. Words and breath alike had failed him, now he could only pant like a man mortally wounded.

“Scream!” Thranduil commanded, his own voice a rough, unsteady thing, and the wide, pained eyes came back to him, soft mouth vulnerable, bruises already flowering dark on his throat. And the king knew he was damned, for the sight flooded to his groin and drove him further. Outside the storm, some-one did scream, a sound of commingled agony and ecstasy, and then he pulsed with red light, a thunderous glory that would not release him, but throbbed again and again.

So slowly the world came back, a dim-lit world, the feel of fingers moving in his hair soft, languorous, the drum of two hearts, skin flush against skin, the scent of seed and cool flowers. There was breath, warm against his ear, a sigh, and as he raised himself Bainalph smiled, white teeth gleaming against bruised lips, a sweet, knowing smile.

Thranduil came to his feet, his mind blank as a grey sky. It was a familiar feeling. So he had felt after that night at Alphgarth, a night detached from the world with all its heartache. Guilt had come only with the dawn.

Bainalph moved carefully, gathering himself, his house-robe and rising to his feet. He was saturated with bliss; it was in every movement, even the small hisses of effort that escaped him. Essence clung, white as river pearls to his belly, where he had spent himself. He brushed his fingers through it, then one by one, closed his mouth over them, sucking it off. Thranduil shuddered again, a last dry pulse, as Bainalph turned away, leisurely coiling his hair into a loose knot, revealing the red stripes on his buttocks. The king stepped back, unable to summon words. The cord he had used lay innocently on the table. He did not remember dropping it, only the intense satisfaction he had taken in wielding it. Bainalph donned his robe, reached for the cord, knotted it at his waist and turned, elegant in his disheveled loveliness. He bowed, and Thranduil thought he saw the prick of dimples beside his mouth. Then the door closed quietly after him.

Dazedly, Thranduil made his way to a side table, pouring from an hitherto untouched flagon of wine, and draining a bowl. It seemed to become air and nothing in his mouth. He drank again, sank down in the chair.

 _My shame. Bainalph. My shame. Legolas. Dead... Exile...Son._ Plaited cord falling hard over apple-round buttocks. _My shame. My guilt...._ The unspeakable joy of taking without pity. Pleas for surcease, for mercy.  
 _My pleasure._

It had been a mistake to go to Alphgarth that wild autumn, but it was Thranduil's duty to visit his lords, and Elvýr had been raped on Bainalph's lands. It was not in any way his fault, the king had tried to tell himself. He had been fighting elsewhere, and been injured. But not raped. Why my son and not him? he had wondered in his anguish, knowing the wrongness of that thought. And he had gone as a king must, over-riding his reluctance, to discuss defenses and patrols. Unlike those of his court, Bainalph did not look away from his face; he gazed, and it seemed as if those green-gold eyes would absorb Thranduil's pain. He had always been thus, an empathic, tactile youth, and though his father's death and his mother's departure had forced him into prominence and maturity, it had not altered his basic nature. He knew, too. He knew Thranduil's thoughts. When they had parted on the last evening, Bainalph had turned back, and said quietly, “I would that it had been me, Sire, to save you this grief.”

And then, Thranduil could not sleep. The wind whipped around the white walls of Alphgarth. It would be tearing the last of the leaves from the trees in flurries, bringing winter, bringing war...

The bedchamber door had opened.  
Thranduil might have done nothing. He might have simply asked his visitor to leave him to his rest. What rest? A guest's wishes were always respected. But he had been lying naked on the bed, and his phallus blushed dark and hard at the delicate, dangerous temptation in the doorway.

 _He tempted me._

 _“The king's pleasure is mine,”_ Bainalph had whispered after, the long white lids of his eyes dropping demurely.

 _He tempted me! My wife...my living sons, all forgotten..._   
_I hated him. Wanted him._

Had he known, this night, that Thranduil had taken refuge in the library? What if he had? Temptation could be conquered.

 _But I wanted to conquer_ him.

The king's pleasure...

“Thranduil?”

He raised his head. The map lay on the table before him, an empty wine-bowl. Brongalen was standing beside him, hand on his shoulder. Thranduil sat up, pushing back his hair.

“One of the scribes entered and saw you asleep.” His friend's voice was concerned. “He did not wish to disturb you, but it is well past dawn. Will you not come and take food?” He did not look at or mention the map, the crumpled vellum.

Past dawn? He took a breath, looked around at the neat chamber.  
“Yes, there are matters I must attend to.” He rose, lifted the map and shut it back in its drawer, felt Brongalen's eyes upon him, bright, sympathetic.

“Why do you not come back to Doronael** with me, my friend?”

Thranduil straightened his robe. “Soon,” he said. “There is still much to do.” He heard his mouth form words and speak them forth. He listened to them. Were they even important?  
 _Legolas. Bainalph._  
“My thanks,” he added. “I will bathe and eat.”  
Brongalen would understand, fey creature that he was. He would listen and not judge, and think nought amiss. Suddenly Thranduil wanted to rage and weep. Under the thin cloth he was rising again.

The passageways here were wide, made light by leaf-green hangings. Men and women glided by, some well-nigh as naked as he, going to the deep bathing rooms where sulfurous waters soothed muscle and mind. They would not calm him this day, but he needed to bathe, wash away away the musk of his shame.  
 _Let it be a dream._ But his body gave the lie to his lie.

The hall sloped up gently toward the guest-rooms, the royal wing beyond. A servant stood outside one open door, talking to whomever was within. There came a ripple of silvery laughter, and then the servant, smiling, looked around and bowed. Thranduil nodded acknowledgment as he passed, saw the man inside the doorway, a glimpse of milk-white hair, the flash of a smile. Gold-green eyes met his, then long lashes fluttered down hiding them.

He almost stopped. His mind broke in visions of striding into the room, Bainalph giving way before him, and...

~~~

 _So, will you exile me, Thranduil?_ Bainalph wondered. _Have I made bad worse, or will you think on this when I am gone and realize you cannot lay the blame solely on others, and on Legolas not at all. You began to hate and to blame when Elvýr was brought back here unconscious, already sickening with orc-seed. You hated the fact that he had been raped, that his body could nurture children, that there was no choice left to you but to end his agonies. And there was not. The only person to blame you for that is, again, yourself. You began to hate yourself, then. No-one else did, but they could not touch you, could they? Only I did. I provided you with an outlet: sex and violence, as had been done to Elvýr, all twisted together to become something you dreaded, but I believe, had always wanted._

There were such men, and women too, whose tastes ran to inflicting pain in bedchamber games, others who achieved their greatest pleasures in accepting them. Bainalph had come to recognize both dominant and submissive now, an instinctive knowledge, something in the eyes. He had first experienced arousal as a youth in training, when a warrior pinned him down roughly and straddled him, slamming back his hands. All the pulsing blood in his veins had flooded to his groin. It had astounded him, piquing not only his body but his curiosity, but not until Thranduil came to Alphgarth did he fully understand what satisfied him, and after the king's utter rebuttal of him, he had embraced his desires, unafraid of them, certainly not ashamed.

 _Like knows like,_ Thranduil had said, speaking the truth in scorn. Bainalph had seen it in Legolas, that need for mastery, to place himself in the hands of one who would dominate. He wished he had done more than observe the lovely youngster that day when Celeirdúr accompanied him to the horses, but little wonder that the king had denied his request to take Legolas to Alphgarth. Thranduil's feelings for his youngest son were too knotted with the grief that was Elvýr and the shame that was Bainalph. Therefore Bainalph did feel guilt of his own, for had he not gone to Thranduil that night, Legolas' life might have been very different. Might. No-one could know. The matter was too complex for glib and simple explanations. One thing he was sure of, was that Thranduil saw too much of he, Bainalph, in Legolas, because he too, recognized the hunger to submit.

 _If he does exile me, so be it. But Legolas needs an advocate here, one who understands him. And if not me, then whom?_ Celeirdúr was as dominant as his father. He might forgive, but would he truly understand? If, as Bainalph had gambled, Thranduil realized that it took two people to come together in such a way, if he examined his own motives, his feelings, it was just possible he would hold his hand, and allow a voice here that supported Legolas. Bainalph would not know until he returned.

He watched the king stride up the wide hall, lamplight falling on the pale gold hair, saw him turn into the royal wing. Down the hall, his eyes flickered blue steel as they met Bainalph's, and then he was gone.

Bainalph closed the door. He was wonderfully sore, but a bath earlier had eased him, and he had known (and encouraged) far worse. There was nothing more delightful, save the act itself, than the lingering ache after, prolonging the sensation of being taken so hard. He tipped back his head and smiled, wondering, as he did so, if Legolas had enjoyed his first coupling. He hoped so. It should at the least have been pleasurable, but any pleasure had surely been destroyed by Thranduil's fury. Remembering the king's violent denial of him and his own heartbreak, Bainalph no longer smiled. Legolas must have been terrified beyond measure, banished by his father and with no-one to take his part. And there was a thing that puzzled Bainalph: no Mortal should have been able to get close to the horse pastures. It would take a Man raised by Elves to be so woodcrafty, and he had not heard of such a thing happening since Túrin Turambar was fostered in Doriath, learning his skills from Beleg Cúthalion. Bainalph had not, in fact, believed the tale when he heard of it. He thought Legolas was shielding an Elf. But _who?_

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Douce ~ this is a lovely word I've read a few times in older historical novels. It's from old French, and one of its meaning is 'sweet.'
> 
> **Doronael ~ Oak pool, the name of Brongalen's lordship south of the Halls.


	25. ~ South Away ~

~ There were no fires lit where the sentries watched the night, and the wind blew cool among the rocks, but it was not unpleasant. A true wolf-road this, thought Tanout, as he made the rounds with the relief watch. It had climbed steadily all day, the rich grassland giving way to rough hills and craggy mountains hunching beyond. Slate snapped under the hooves of the horses, and ravens called from stony towers.

Thus far, there had been no pursuit. The men and women rescued from the temple had been accepted into the _Mhadi_ and would, if any-one searched for them, have been with the tribe since their birth. Only the Northman remained, and the youth, Shemar. Why they had chosen to come, why Vanimórë had allowed it, Tanout did not know. He for one, did not trust the Northman who watched them with those pale, expressionless eyes and said nothing.

“His story leaks like a broken gourd, Sire,” he had said. “Surely Dhölkan would not have used an inept assassin to kill the King of Gondor?”

“I do not believe it either,” Vanimórë agreed. “But assassins lose their nerve, and I do not believe for one moment he has slain as many people as the rumors say. He can kill and spins a good tale. People tend to take one at one's own evaluation Tanout, remember that. Osulf did what he had to do to survive, and when his own life was in danger he killed Dhölkan, an old man and a politician, not a warrior. It would have taken little skill to dispatch him.”

“Then why, Sire?” Tanout asked quietly.

“He fled the north after killing rapists,” the prince said. “He wants to serve me. Well, we shall see.”

~~~

They camped where the track dipped into a shallow valley bounded by low cliffs, a saddleback of land between the higher peaks. Vanimórë posted sentries to the north and south, and climbed to the heights to ensure no wolfsheads waited in the rocks. When he returned the horses were fed and watered, fires lit, and moorland grouse roasted. The men were alert but calm, talking and laughing quietly as they ate and drank their rations of wine or mead. After, Vanimórë called his officers, as was his habit at the end of each day. This route would bring them down into Dor Rhûnan, he said, inhabited by tribes who were kin, hundreds of years back, to the _Mhadi._ To the west was the debatable land where Gondor had built lonely outposts, many empty or ruined in the recent wars. Vanimórë had left warriors at Tirith Nindor, a town that survived uneasily due to its strategic position and solid walls. From there, they would ride back the way they had come, through green Ithilien, following the Anduin down to Harondor, and the great trade roads that lead south. Their journey had been long but uneventful, let them hope the return would be likewise.

Long indeed, thought Tanout, as he rose to go to his bedroll. He was proud to have been chosen for this mission, and was intrigued by what he had seen of different lands, but he was Sicannite, and would be glad to see the domes of his city, the gardens like jewels in their hidden courtyards, the fountains and spilling flowers, to see the sun set over the desert.

“Tanout,” Vanimórë said quietly, and gestured with his head.

“Sire?”

They walked toward the one tent that had been erected, the night being dry enough for the soldiers to sleep under the sky; a sand-shield, they called it, for it was low and snug enough to be used in the desert when a sandstorm blew up. Legolas and Gîlríon were within, and beside it stood the one called Nhidan and the boy, Shemar. Boy, Tanout smiled to himself; Shemar was little younger than he, but without the years of discipline and training that allowed one to accrue confidence. Shemar had been a man's plaything, and his skills availed him nothing now; he could not ride, and was clearly in some discomfort.

Vanimórë laid a hand on the young man's shoulder.  
“I would like Shemar to stay close to thee,” he said in Westron, and Tanout, in the fitful ripples of firelight, saw the youth's head tilt. Clearly he knew a little of the language.  
“Tell Jobur to teach him how to help with thy kit.”

Jobur was Tanout's aide, a wiry, no-nonsense soldier of forty, who privately referred to the officers he was assigned to as _desert flowers_ until they earned his respect.

“Of course, Sire.”

“He does not know Haradhic,” Vanimórë continued in that tongue. “And only a little Westron. Go gently, all he has known is the temple, slavery and abuse.”

“Sire, you need not say it.” Tanout stretched out a hand, saying carefully in Westron, “Come, Shemar, we will find you a bed.”

“Thank-you, my lord.” The youth bowed deeply, and Tanout shook his head. “No need for that,” he said, and lead him to where he would sleep.

“Hmph,” Jobur grunted, but brought a hide bedroll and one of the army blankets, rough but warm enough for cold desert nights. When tucked under it, Shemar looked small and frightened.

“Rest,” Tanout told him kindly, and lay himself down, weapons and boots to hand. Reaching out, he touched the youth's hair in a gentling gesture, then put his arms behind his head and watched the stars, listening to the night, before he himself slept.

~~~

“It has a name,” Maglor said.

“What does?” Vanimórë turned his head.

Both sat like guards outside Legolas' tent. When Vanimórë had looked in, both Legolas and Gîl were asleep. It had been another long ride, but not the hard war-pace of their flight from Szrel Kain.

Maglor's profile was pale and clean against the darkness, his hair tamed into a great braid, now looped twice about his neck, but still falling down his back to the grass.

“What happened. Glorfindel feeling Legolas.”

Vanimórë frowned. “Yes? I have not heard of such a thing.” But he could not deny something _had_ happened. Even Glorfindel's mental emanations were altered, after, as if he were shaken. And perhaps it was not so different to Sauron being able to enter Vanimórë's mind.

“I have forgotten...” Maglor whispered frustratedly. “But thou didst feel it also.”

“Yes, I felt it.”

The night-wind breathed from the peaks, snapping the fires.

“What didst thou do?” the Fëanorion asked. “To him? To me?”

Vanimórë smiled. “I simply wanted thee. Both of thee. I want thee now – the both of thee.”

“I do not – ”

“Want me?”

“Thou art a fool.” Maglor looked away.

“Always have been, beauty.”

And the night-wind blew dark silence.

 

~~~

“Go on ahead.” Bainalph smiled at his companions, all warriors, all to be trusted except in this matter. To the east, the Celduin sang a blue song on its journey south and the land rolled to the horizon under the summer sun. They had taken the opportunity to hunt east of the halls before turning north and west to Alphgarth.  
“I will catch up with you.”

“You are sure you do not wish any of us to accompany you?” Cangrist inquired, his eyes fixed rather too unblinkingly upon Bainalph, who wondered if Sulluth had hinted at something before departing. Sulluth would never betray his trust, but perhaps he had told his men to watch their prince closely?

“My thoughts would make ill company,” he said, allowing them to imagine. No-one knew of what had happened two nights ago, but all his household were aware that he had challenged the king's judgment of Legolas. Let them believe him troubled by the letter that had arrived; it was true.  
“Ride on. I may meet with Prince Celeirdúr. Perhaps he will return to Alphgarth with me.”

He saw the speculation, but they did not ask. Celeirdúr's outburst was now common property. And it was important people know that he and Celeirdúr were together; they had too many responsibilities to simply vanish. Sulluth was going to bear the brunt of the blame when he admitted to knowing Bainalph's plans, and he would.

He rode away casually, as if self-absorbed, and turned to give them a last wave. Keeping the truth from them was difficult, for every one of them would have come with him.

 _But I do not want banishment to fall upon them as well as I. And we_ are _leaving our responsibilities._

But had he been banished? Not formally, it seemed. No word had come from the king.

 _Thranduil knows that he has no valid reason to banish me. But he will have. And although Legolas may not be_ my _responsibility, I should have done more._

In the warm noon, the laughing river on his left, he wondered what, in all honesty, he could have done. He had absolutely no right to take the king's youngest son from his father's wardship, but damn Thranduil for his entrenched dislike! And yet, was not he himself to blame for that?

 _I was a young fool,_ he thought. _But like knows like he said. It is true. Like, and unlike._

He had been glad of a day to rest after Thranduil's savage usage of him, but the soreness was a pleasant, arousing memory. Smiling to himself, he set Hirilel to an easy canter, until his thoughts brought gravity. This was no light thing he was doing.

In late afternoon, he came to the bridge over the Celduin. Maintained by the Men of the vils and the Elves, it was wide enough to allow for the passage of wagons, and marked the border between Thranduil's kingdom and the scattered Northmens' holdings. There was no true road, but cobbles had been laid each side of the bridge, and one could see the ancient trade route worn year after year through the rolling grassland. Legolas must have come this way, bewildered and terrified. How, _how_ had he fallen into the hands of the son of Sauron? Bainalph's reaction had been the same as Thranduil's, that no such being could exist, but Celeirdúr had believed it.

 _“They know of him in Imladris,”_ he had said, and Bainalph prickled at the thought of the _Golodhrim._ Like Thranduil, he had been raised on stories of Doriath, its beauty, and its destruction at the hands of the sons of Fëanor. It had been the expressions on his parents faces that had shown him the full horror of it, even more than their words of that bloody day. Orc-work, he had thought, realizing how fortunate they had been to escape the slaughter.  
Then his father had died on Dagorlad.

  
Bainalph was no fool; of course the Dark Lord was a greater danger than the _Golodhrim,_ and they had not killed his father, but it seemed that death dogged them and all who associated with them. The Imladrians treated Silvan and Sindarin prisoners as if they were inhuman. Of course, there were rumors the Lasgalen warriors reciprocated, but Bainalph had never taken _Golodhrim_ prisoners, and only rarely had he met them in battle. The few times he had, it could not be called battle proper, as there was little more than an exchange of arrows. The Imladrians did not come so far north, for to reach Alphgarth they would have to pass through the northern mountains, rife with orcs. One enemy was enough for both Sindar and _Golodh_ , and Bainalph's duty was to defend his borders. The enemy there were orcs, and sometimes wolfshead Men.

Anyhow, he thought, returning to the matter of Sauron's son, though he could imagine some ambitious lord of Men taking that title, such a person would surely have tried to bargain or threaten Thranduil. And he had not. What had Celeirdúr learned in Imladris? He would find out.

A youth pasturing cattle pointed the way to Burh Stane, for Bainalph was unfamiliar with this region. He came to the vil in late afternoon. It was named, he saw, for the old ring of stones nearby. One saw such monuments in the north, erected by Men in older times as they traveled west. Some said they were places of worship to the Earth itself, the goddess who went by many names, and they were still used. Bainalph felt a brush of power up his spine as he rode past.

The citizens of Burh Stane were familiar with the Elves to the extent that they traded, and were often the intermediary between the eastern merchants and the Great Wood, but their relationship was polite rather than cordial. Bainalph had experienced the same wariness in his dealings with the Mannish settlements north of Alphgarth. Men were not comfortable around Elves, and it was still a shock to Bainalph to see how the years took their toll on Mortals, so that a boy he had seen would, after what seemed but a few seasons, become an old man. Nonetheless, Thranduil sent his warriors here on patrol, and the gate-guards lifted their long spears as Bainalph rode in.

It was a prosperous place. The main street was paved with cobbles, and broadened to a bustling market square. Here was the inn the Lasgalen warriors used if they elected to stay in Burh Stane, a long, low building about a central courtyard. Bainalph would not lodge there; he meant to bivouac in the open, watching for Celeirdúr, but there were things he could purchase here, both goods and information.

He was used to the stares, sidelong or open, even sneering, as he dismounted in the inn-yard, and gave Hirilel to a young ostler, and slinging the saddlebags over his shoulders. Pausing, he turned back to the lad.  
“Do you remember soldiers coming here?” he asked. “Men from the South?”

“Aye, Sir.” The mare nudged him with apparent encouragement, and he rubbed her face. “Over a sennight ago, that was.”

“Were they well-mounted?”

A nod. “That they were, Sir. Fine horses, small heads, proud necks.” He patted Hirilel's own graceful neck. A true horse-lover this, Bainalph thought with a smile. “Deep chests,” the boy added. “Real stayers, or I am no judge.”

So was Hirilel, but now Bainalph knew. Cavalry horses. He would have to make good time to catch them up, but likewise men accustomed to such mounts would not mistreat them. In a battle, a good horse was as valued as a sword-brother.

The currency of Rhovannion and the North was copper or silver rings, and very rarely, gold. Bainalph dropped a silver into the boy's hand and went into the tavern.

~~~

“No, they went south,” the inn-keep filled Bainalph's cup. “Burh Alge.”

Burh Alge was the seat of Cadmon, self-styled Prince of Rhovannion. Bainalph knew little about him, save that he was an ally of distant Gondor and had been involved in some of the battles with the Easterlings.

“Did they come from there?” he asked, taking a sip of wine.

The common-room was readying for the evening trade and thick with the smell of cooking, hot bodies and drink. Little air was moving, though the doors and casements were all flung wide.

“Came up the Dorwinion road,” offered a man with a short blond beard and the look of a soldier about him. “Torr,” he introduced himself unsmilingly. “I was on duty at the gates.”

“Bainalph,” the prince returned. “My thanks.”

“Is the Elven-king concerned?” the guard asked. “They offered no trouble or violence.”

“Paid right well!” From a tall fair woman sitting on a man's lap and watching Bainalph boldly.

“The king is interested,” Bainalph replied. “I hope to catch up with them, for we do not know where they came from.”

“South,” the inn-keep said, as if it were obvious. “Gold skinned most of them, and one black as night.”

“Have you ever seen their like before?”

Torr shook his head. “They were different from the traders up from Dorwinion.”

The tall woman rose and approached Bainalph, hands cocked on her hips.  
“The one I was with spoke of his home,” she said. “For a cup of yon wine, maybe I will tell you something you need to know.”

The woman, who gave her name as Aedre, lead him out of the room to benches set against the walls of the courtyard. It was cooler here, and she fanned herself, settling her skirts. Bainalph liked her openness, the way she leaned her elbows on the rough table, did not hide her curiosity as she stared at him. She tasted the wine, raised her brows in appreciation, and drank deep, pocketing the silver he slid across the wood.

“I am an Earthwife,” she told him.

“Ah.” He had heard of it, but never seen such a woman. In some villages, the Deep Days, as they were called, the equinoxes, Midsummer and Midwinter, were presided over by a woman who worshiped the Earth by the gift of her body. It was said to be a holy calling. If so, no wonder there was a certain sparkle about this Aedre. Theirs was not a debased vocation; they were often skilled midwives, and young men went to them to discover the mysteries of sex.

“Well, pretty lord, we got to talking, the Southron and I. Chadir, his name was. I said I thought all Southrons worshiped the Dark.” She sipped again. “And he told me of his city. Across a great desert it is. He said the sun was so hot it could blind and kill.”

“Sud Sicanna?” Bainalph murmured.

“He was homesick.” She nodded at the name. “He said the city was built on great wells of water, deep in the earth, and there were gardens with beautiful flowers, and pools with golden fish. All cool white stone, with the desert around it, and no rain, ever. Sunsets like wine spilling over rock and sand. Those were his words. Talked like a skald,* he did.”

“Did he say how long it took him to travel from there?”

“A long time, Elf. Came up a great river, past the White City of the Sea-kings. A long way.” She finished her cup, and Bainalph poured more wine, red as the sunsets the Southron had spoken of.

“Did he speak of the one he served?” he asked.

Aedre narrowed her eyes in thought.  
“A mighty warrior and good lord. They have a temple to the Lady in his city.” She leaned forward. “Chadir said he was immortal. Half god.”

Half god? Yes, no doubt Men would consider Sauron's son as having the blood of a god. And a good lord? But all Men called their overlord's good, he suspected, or face the consequences. And so his way lay south, the route he had taken long ago with his mother, down Anduin, and further yet, into an unknown desert land. But first he had to catch up with the Southron soldiers...

“You have helped me greatly, lady.” He smiled, and laid another silver ring on the table. It vanished into the folds of her skirt.

“You are welcome, pretty lord. And you _are_ a very pretty one.” She picked up the wine-jug. “Not often I taste Red Harvest. Leave the Lady an offering in the stones, and fare you well.”

~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * skald. ~ Scandinavian bard. I tend to think of the Northmen as Scandinavian in type, so I use this word.


	26. ~ Elusive Understandings ~

~ Burh Stane closed its gates at dusk, as did all the vils. Bainalph waited near the stones, Hirilel half-dozing in the windless night. The sky was enormous, hazy-white with stars that outshone the thin sliver of the new moon. His saddlebags were filled, his gear checked. He was ready, and would wait until dawn. He had also, as Aedre suggested, poured a libation in the center of the circle, hoping the Lady appreciated Red Harvest as much as her Earthwife.

It was nigh to dawn when a voice whispered, “Bainalph?”

He had not heard Celeirdúr approach, but he had expected to hear hoofbeats. His knives were already out as he span.

“Where is your horse?”

“It was as much as I could do to bring myself,” Celeirdúr hissed. “When I suggested riding out to hunt alone, I was offered company. I do not know if my father suspects anything, or whether my friends are simply anxious. It could not risk it. I had to pack light and take to the trees.”

“I did wonder,” Bainalph murmured, sheathing his blades with a flick. “We will have to purchase a horse here, and more supplies. They should open the gates at sunrise. You were not followed?”

“I heard no-one, but that means naught. Some-one could have seen and told my father.” Celeirdúr slipped off his pack. There was the fresh, ferny scent of sweat about him. He must have run fast from the forest eaves and not paused.  
“I have not seen him since the council.”

“I was not sure you would come.”

“I do not want to travel with _you._ ” Celeirdúr said flatly. “Let me be very clear. I despise you. You are no friend to me. I do this for Legolas.”

Bainalph tilted his head. Thranduil's steel-blue eyes shone scorn into his own.  
 _How very alike they are._  
“Would you like to know what I have learned?” he asked softly.

The air was grey, and Bainalph watched when he had finished. Celeirdúr gazed south, his profile still and hard, the image of his father's. Was he like the king in other ways? An aggressive lover, it was rumored, and there was the difference of a hairsbreadth between aggression and enjoying domination, but a difference nevertheless.

“At least we know not to head down the trade road,” Celeirdúr said at last. “I could use a cup of wine.”

The rising sun speared across Rhovannion as they drank, and horns sounded from Burh Stane as the great gated creaked open.

It was not the best time to buy horses, and despite the Man's words of praise and regret that he could not keep the rawboned grey, both Bainalph and Celeirdúr guessed that the animal was being sold because of his ill-temper. Celeirdúr drew his head down, and murmured in one laid-back ear until it flicked forward, then settled a price that included saddle, bridle and journey-gear while Bainalph purchased a sleeping skin, woolen blankets and more wine.

“Only half-broken if that.” Celeirdúr settled the filled saddlebags. “He does not like people coming close to his head. He was beaten, and more frightened than vicious, are you not, my friend?”

The horse nickered and lipped a handful of oats for Bainalph's palm. A strong beast, thicker in the limb than Hirilel, but with a look of stamina, which he would need.

~~~

They looked back often as they rode south across the grasslands, the forest rolling to their right. For a time, they veered east, for the relative flatness of Rhovannion meant than any Elves watching from the trees would be able to see them many leagues away.

There was no road here. The larger settlements were further south, those in the north smaller and scattered. The Celduin bent east and they followed it. There was a fording place, Bainalph had been told by the guards, a town called Burh Kaupis. Doubtless the Southrons would have passed through it.

Celeirdúr was silent for most of the morning, his face set over hidden doubts. Clearly he knew nothing of what had happened in the library, but was unhappy at having to slip clandestinely from his own home. Bainalph did not press him. There was time.

At noon, when the heat turned the distances indistinct with wavering haze, they halted beside the river where a line of ancient willows, the trunks split under the weight of their great crowns, bowed toward the Celduin like dancers. They rubbed down the horses, watered them and let them graze. The Southrons would likewise need to rest their mounts, and it would be foolhardy to race after them, possibly straining the grey and Hirilel. They must needs ease into the pursuit, hoping to ride a little faster than the Men.

The land seemed to drowse. Only far to the east a herd of aurochs grazed.

“I need to bathe.” Celeirdúr stripped his clothes, and laid them to air, wading into the water under the trailing willows. In midstream the current was swift, but where he stood only idle ripples lapped his thighs. The river was low this dry summer. He drank, unloosed his braid, reveling in the cool cleanness, and gathered a handful of water-mint to wash his body, only to be disturbed as Bainalph stepped into the water. His hair spread out like spilled milk as he leaned forward to massage his scalp.

Celeirdúr had not wanted to accept that his father had bedded Bainalph when his wife was still alive, and had spent a day and night trying disbelieve it. Trying and failing. It explained too many things. Thranduil had been close to the Cúalphii until Bainalph's mother left for Edhellond. His antipathy dated from after that time, and was solely directed against Bainalph, whom had taken advantage of Thranduil's anguish. It was the act of a wanton, of some-one who cared naught for the sacredness of family or faithfulness, (but does my father? an inner voice wondered.) and Celeirdúr despised the perpetrator with all his heart. The more he envisaged the night, the more disgusted he became, and had almost decided not to attempt this journey, or not with Bainalph. But the Swan Prince had traveled with his mother to Edhellond, and Celeirdúr had never been south of the forest. Bainalph apparently felt guilty, and so he should, but he should not have done _more,_ he should have done far less. Well, now he had surely exiled himself, and Celeirdúr would shed no tears. He wanted his youngest brother back. Perhaps with Bainalph gone, the king would accept Legolas. That was Celeirdúr's hope.

He realized to his chagrin that he had been staring. The _beautiful swan_ was well named. He was slender, but it was all taut muscle, save for the perfect curve of his small hind. There were fading bruises on his hips. The marks of fingers digging into white flesh. Despite the coolness, Celeirdúr was suddenly fire-hot.  
Rumors clung to Bainalph like pollen to a bee; he was said to enjoy rough bedsport, to be handled cruelly by his lovers, of which there were many. And when one looked at him, one _did_ envisage him helpless, pleading, there was something too damnably entrancing about his cream-and-pearl loveliness that begged for it. It was little wonder Thranduil had vetoed the suggestion Legolas be fostered at Alphgarth.

“It is a wonder you can ride,” he said harshly, and Bainalph looked over his shoulder, brows raised, then turned. His manhood jutted dark above the water.

“I am used to such things.” His eyes danced.

“So they say.” Celeirdúr turned away.

“How disapproving you sound.” Bainalph's voice smiled. “Yet you are no virgin, _so they say._ ”

“I have never bedded a married man!”

“I was besotted by your father, and wanted to comfort him.”

“That is no excuse!” Celeirdúr whirled back. Bainalph was too close. His flesh bejeweled with water, luminous in the shade, he was a river-pearl of great price.

“No it is not.”

“My father banished Legolas because of you, and you admit that!”

“I do not think that is the only reason, prince.” Bainalph's eyes were shadowed as the river was shadowed by those long fawn-coloured lashes. “But I must carry much of the blame. Yet your father need not have succumbed.”  
He had dimples. One of them flashed like a star beside his lovely mouth.

Celeirdúr's throat felt thick and hot as his manhood.  
“He was wounded.” He caught the wet shoulders, startled by their hardness. Bainalph was a creature of contrasts: delicate, dangerous, too alluring. Could _he_ have resisted?  
“He was half-mad with grief!”

“I know. And I wanted to help him.”

“ _Help_ him?” He thrust Bainalph away, and felt an ankle hook around his own. They fell together into the deeper water, and he struggled furiously to right himself.  
Slim thighs wrapped around his waist as he rose, water streaming, arms wound around his neck, a swordsman's arms, an archer's.

“I regret that _he_ regretted that night,” Bainalph whispered. “That he felt even more guilt after, and that the hate and shame came to rest on Legolas, but I do not regret _what_ your father did to me.”

“Stop!” Celeirdúr growled.

“He needed it, and hated that he did, do you not see? We are what we are. Me. Your father. Legolas...”

“ _Enough!_ ” His hands gripped Bainalph's hips, and his mouth came down hard. It was a kiss of punishment, yet he was engorged with need, and Bainalph's own erection ground against his belly.

He wrenched his head aside at last, away from the sweet, eager lips, melting and sighing under his. His breath came in hectic pants. Bainalph lowered himself, saying nothing, and slipped to the bank like a white otter. Celeirdúr swore, caught another handful of mint-leaves and scrubbed hard before he left the water.

Bainalph had unwrapped a small wheel of cheese, flat bread and filled two cups with wine. There were also early plums from some sunny garth, mottled red and yellow. It was too intimate a setting, Celeirdúr thought as he sat down, and Bainalph was still naked, his hair drying in creamy sheets under the sun. He was still erect. So was Celeirdúr, who took a mouthful of wine to ease his throat.

“Did I not make myself clear to you?” he asked harshly. “We travel together because you have been south before. I do not _want_ you.”

Bainalph regarded him straightly from those brilliant eyes. “It would make for a much more pleasant trip if you did,” he murmured.

“Be quiet! What passed between you and my father...it is done. I hate that it happened, what you did to him, but it _happened._ ” Celeirdúr drank again. “But whatever his reasons for taking you, madness or anguish, _I_ do not want you. What are you, like a Mortal drunk who cannot stop drinking? Can you not live without coupling?”

“Of course, but why should I have to?”

“You will have to on this journey. Do not throw yourself at me, wanton! You are a despicable creature.”

Bainalph tilted his head. “Because of the king, or because of what I enjoy?”

“I care naught for what bedsport you favor. I know others who like such games. But my father was married!”

“Yes, he was,” Bainalph agreed. “And every-one knew that he and the queen did not sleep together, rarely spoke to one another. Marriages fail, Celeirdúr. I believed theirs had. And did he not return to your mother after? Soon she was with child again.”

Celeirdúr slammed a hand onto the grass. “It was not for you to judge whether or not his marriage had failed! He was vulnerable and had no defenses. He went back to her and begat Legolas...”

“Do not dare to say Legolas should never have been born!” Bainalph flashed with startling anger. “All children are a blessing.”

“That is not what I meant.” Had he? He dragged his fingers through his wet hair and closed his eyes. “But I think my father wishes Legolas had never been born.”

“I will tell you a thing.”

Celeirdúr opened his eyes. “Do not,” he advised.

“I did not plan to seduce the king, but it is true that I had wanted him since I was a youth, younger than Legolas.”

“I am warning you!”

Bainalph rose gracefully to his knees. Every movement seemed calculated to entice, though Celeirdúr knew that was unfair, that the Swan Prince was simply himself.

“This is important, if you wish to understand your father and why he feels as he does toward Legolas.”

His jaw and loins aching, Celeirdúr said nothing.

“People like me,” Bainalph said softly, “who find pleasure in being mastered, we recognize others like us. We also recognize those who enjoy mastering, dominating. It is never said in words. It goes beyond that. It is a look in the eye, a movement of the body. We know, just as _you_ have met the glance of another and know desire is there, and they will be yours for a night, a sennight, a season...” He reached forward, long fingers trailing like butterfly wings down Celeirdúr's arm. He caught the slim wrist in one hand, saw Bainalph's eyes widen. He was so close, the light so bright, that he could see the golden spikes radiating from the pupil, stars amid the water-green.  
“I knew what the king wanted, and he knew what I wanted. No words. But I think that he associated violent sex with what happened to Elvýr, and that, with his guilt at taking me brutally, dominating me...” His other hand rose and Celeirdúr caught that one too. Bainalph leaned toward him. “And then came Legolas, whom Thranduil _recognized_ as being like me, because he _is_...”

Horrified, Celeirdúr whispered, “You cannot think that my father... _wants_ Legolas?”

“No.” Bainalph was as serene as a summer sunset. “I do not. But I think Legolas reminded him of me and of Elvýr, and it was easier to hate Legolas than accept _me,_ in any form, even a reflection. Thranduil does not want to admit he has those appetites, that he needed me that night. And it was _far_ easier to ignore Legolas than love him, lest anything happen to him, as it did to Elvýr.”

But something _had_ happened to Legolas.  
 _Did it make it any easier, father? that you did not love him? I think not._

He released his grip on Bainalph's wrists, who said, “Thranduil no doubt imagined Legolas _tempting_ a man, as I tempted him. Yet I truly doubt it was a Mortal. I think it was an Elf, some-one who looked at Legolas and recognized his desires, just as I did, just as Thranduil did, an Elf who cared naught for the king's anger.”

 _I underestimated him. He is not just sinful beauty, or a skilled warrior..._  
“Why think you thus?”

Bainalph raised those delicate brows.  
“I do not believe any Man, save one raised by us, could come so close to the halls without being heard or seen. But I call him craven if he did not come forward. The question no-one has asked is _why_ Legolas would protect him.”

Craven. Celeirdúr might have laughed at the bitter irony of Glorfindel, Balrog-slayer, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, being named craven, but he could not find a scintilla of laughter anywhere in him.

 _And now it comes._  
Of course he had to tell Bainalph. It did not matter, for the Cúalphii would surely never return to the forest. He swallowed the wine, now gone warm in the heat.

“I know who it was,” he said.

And that did surprise Bainalph. His eyes flashed in the light as he drew himself up.  
“ _You know_?”

And then Celeirdúr saw the mind behind those eyes begin to work, tracing possibilities, and widening as they settled on a certainty.

“Imladris?” He shaped the word slowly. “It was a _Golodh._ Of course. They _would_ recognize what Legolas was.” He came to his feet, still graceful, alluring even in his anger.  
“Who was it?” he asked, his sweet voice hard.

Celeirdúr rose, said flatly, “Glorfindel. It was Glorfindel.”

~~~


	27. ~ The Scent Of Sandalwood ~

~ Legolas woke. Some-one had tied back the tent flap. Light and sweet air whisked in playfully like a maiden's summer gown, carrying the scent of the camp: hot bread, horses, leather and steel, and the fresher tones of pine and heather. Gîl was already awake, smiling as Legolas lifted him up to feed. Some-one was waiting outside, he sensed, but only when he had finished did Maglor duck and enter, kneeling. He carried a cup full of frothing milk, still warm.

“There are wild goats,” he explained with a small, cautious-seeming smile, as if uncertain of his welcome. “And a stream not far away. Vanimórë said if thou wouldst like to bathe, I should escort thee. Art thou comfortable with that?”

They were both blushing. Legolas was not comfortable, but it was a discomfort not unmixed with...pleasure? a sense of worth, that some-one had been intimate with him, and wanted him? Was it simply that he was with people who desired and cared for him? All of those, perhaps. Despite the terror he had felt in the temple courtyard in Szrel Kain, their swift flight, and now his fear that Glorfindel would find him and take Gîl away, there was an ember of warmth in his heart. So strange that he should feel thus with all that had happened.

“Thank-you,” he said, and he could not know the innocent enchantment of his own returned smile.

Some of the soldiers looked up at him as he emerged from the tent, and Legolas kept his head down, save for when Tanout hailed him, when he glanced up briefly and waved. He was grateful when Maglor showed him to a stand of trees where a a stream spilled through huge worn boulders, scattered detritus of the frowning cliffs.

“Where is Vanimórë?” he asked, and Maglor pointed up to where a figure was silhouetted against the bright sky.

“No-one has followed us, so far,” the Fëanorion said. “There are scouts, also. Shall I hold Gîl?”

Legolas hesitated for a moment, but found it difficult to think of Maglor as one of the Kinslayers. Indeed, the Fëanorion did not even know he was one, and had shown him nothing but consideration during their short acquaintance. Gîl seemed content to watch from Maglor's arms as Legolas undressed and knelt in a small pool. His nipples hurt. Gîl fed enthusiastically. Legolas had been too embarrassed to mention it to Vanimórë, but Hathar – Dana, he reminded himself – had understood without words and had given him a stoppered jar of unguent to use. He applied it to the tender buds after Gîl fed, cleansing it off before the next feeding, but their swift pace of the last two days had not permitted him the time.

Maglor had seen his body, yet still Legolas tried to hide himself with the drying sheet as he stepped from the water, and used the salve. It worked remarkably fast, and he sighed with relief before quickly dressing, and blotting his wet hair, shaking it back over his shoulders.

“Here. Eat.” The Fëanorion unpacked still-warm flatbread, soft cheese, cold fowl and four red-mottled plums that had somehow survived the journey intact. Legolas tried to think of nothing while he ate, letting the food give him a sense of ballast, while Gîl lay in the shade watching the weave of moving branches, and Maglor stood looking up the valley, sometimes lifting his head to the cliffs. He did not speak until Legolas had finished.

“I told Vanimórë that which happened...” He paused, and his hands lifted in a defeated gesture. “Glorfindel. I felt him when he touched thee.”

Legolas flushed again, and more hotly. Maglor came to kneel behind him, and began to comb his hair.

“There is a name for that bonding, but I cannot remember it.” The frustration was evident in his tone, but the smooth movements of his hands denied it. Legolas tensed, and Maglor paused.  
“Hast thou not heard of it?”

“No,” Legolas refuted. “He was...just there.” His mouth dried. “Inside me, my soul and...my body, but of course that is impossible. I did not know that such a thing existed. And Glorfindel, he...”

“Raped thee?” Maglor supplied gently.

“I did something wrong.” Legolas fought to master his voice. “I must have done _something._ When I first saw him, I thought he must surely be one of the Valar...”  
At the the placid thump of hooves, and Men's quiet conversation, he turned his head. Further downstream, soldiers were bringing the horses to water. He saw the pale-haired Northman glance toward him, and reached for Gîl. The man disturbed him; there was something about his eyes, his entire demeanor, that was too knowing, too tranquil. Maglor stepped before him, blocking his view. Did he feel the same?

“Thou didst nothing,” he said intensely. “There can be no excuse for rape.”

“But then _why?_ ” Legolas asked helplessly, as he had asked Vanimórë, for he could not understand why such a thing had happened to him, and there had been a moment, in that warm glade, with the sun gilding the stranger's glorious body and wet hair, when Legolas had believed that something beautiful would happen. “My father called me a slut.” Gîl made a little, distressed sound as if in protest. “And I must be, because now there is Vanimórë and...you...”

“Thou hast done naught wrong, Legolas, and I am sorry.” Maglor sighed. “No. I am _not_ sorry that I desire thee, only that is disturbs thee. I can give thee nothing. Not even my true name.”

 _But I know it,_ Legolas thought, a wave of heat running down his back. His voice came small and breathless.  
“ _Why_ do you...want me? Glorfindel just took me, and left me.”

Maglor's face changed, some strong, unnameable emotion running under the skin.  
“Thou art very lovely, and easy to want, and thou art deserving of more than this; more than _rape,_ more than _exile._ ”

Legolas turned his head so that Maglor would not see the tears. He blinked them from his eyes, gazing up at the cliff. Vanimórë was descending. The rocks were bare and almost vertical, but he made it look easy and fluid as the movement of a snake through grass, and it filled Legolas with a yearning for his home. He thought of running from tree to tree, feeling the welcoming spring of the wood under her feet, the caressing brush of leaves against his hands and face. During the long journey with the Mhadi, before Gîl's birth, he had felt too ill for this strange uprooted feeling to have house-room, but after, as he recovered, and now, it was strong, an ache in him for the North, for the forest. No-one had wanted him there, and yet it was a part of him, his peoples home for thousands of years.  
Exile. A lonely word. A terrible, final judgement. He had done the unthinkable, the unforgivable; let himself be used by an enemy of his father's realm, _and was complicit in hiding Glorfindel's presence,_ and now, made a friend of a Kinslayer.

Maglor's hands settled on his shoulders. One of them rose again to smooth Gîl's curls. The child trusted him. Legolas wondered if any of Glorfindel's power flowed in his son, but whether it did or not, he trusted those with whom Gîl was at ease.

“I need to do the best I can for him,” he said almost to himself. “Even if that means – ”

“Glorfindel?” He heard the frown in Maglor's voice. “Gîl is loved, Legolas. By thee.”

“A child needs the love of both parents.”

“As thou wert loved by both of thine?”

Legolas could not say anything. He did not remember his mother; sometimes the image of a lovely, distressed face would drift over his mind. He must have been very young when she died, and his father...? Legolas thought himself a worthless creature, incapable of earning the love of even his own father. He brushed at the wetness on his cheeks.

“Thy son is happy with _thee,_ Legolas,” Maglor said. “Think of thyself.”

 _Myself._ He watched Vanimórë reach the base of the cliffs, run effortlessly across the rocky ground toward the stream. His men acknowledged him with crisp salutes. The Northman observed with, Legolas thought, something like amused interest. Vanimórë jumped the stream and came toward them.The violet eyes, warm and brilliant in the sunlight, summed up Legolas appearance.

“What is this?” he asked. So soft his voice.

“Nothing.” Legolas' throat was swollen, too tight for speech, and the words emerged in fragmented whispers. “Home. I was thinking of home.”

Vanimórë nodded as if he understood, kissed Legolas brow. And there was the gentleness that Legolas had come to depend on, almost without realizing.

“Shall we bathe Gîl?” Vanimórë asked. “And then I need to speak to thee.”

Back at the camp, Shemar brought warm water. He looked as nervous as Legolas felt, casting quick, wary glances at Vanimórë, Maglor and even Legolas himself. Sympathizing with him, Legolas essayed a small smile, and Shemar, ducked his head, flushing, and quickly returned to where Tanout was checking over his weapons. The young captain drew him close, apparently showing him some detail of the task. He was kind, thought Legolas. Vanimórë had been right to place the youth under his care.

“I have spoken a little more to Glorfindel,” Vanimórë said, holding Gîl over the bowl as Legolas washed him. This would be difficult, he knew, traveling the way they were. Gîl had loved the baths in Szrel Kain, unafraid of the water, splashing at it with tiny fists and chuckling in delight.

“He said I would pay wergild in my own blood if aught happened to either of thee.”

Vanimórë always handled Gîl with extreme gentleness, almost caution, as if the child were unbearably precious, and he were afraid to hurt him. He would be a good father, Legolas thought. Would Glorfindel?

“That is possessiveness, not care,” Maglor remarked quietly. He held out a clean drying cloth, warmed by the fires, and Legolas wrapped it around Gîl, glad to be able to concentrate on his son's wriggles and kicks as he carefully dried and dressed him.

“He does sound very possessive,” Vanimórë agreed. “I felt I had to tell him of the situation, of the battle at the temple. He knew thou wert both in danger,” he said to Legolas. “And it is true that I wilfully exposing thee to it. I felt thou wouldst be safer with me than anywhere. I was wrong.”

“I was not hurt,” Legolas said quickly, seeing the angry guilt in Vanimórë's eyes. “And Maglor and Tanout saved us.”

“Do not forget thine own part in that,” Vanimórë reminded him. “And still, I should not have taken thee into a battle.” He poured the water away. “Or be running with thee now, though I hope when we come down into Dor Rhûnan, we may have a respite.”

“He will find me, will he not?” Legolas ran his fingers through Gîl's curls.

“Eventually, yes. He will be drawn to Gîl, and now I think to thee, also.”

There was a stiff, warm wind funneling down the narrow valley, but Legolas felt suddenly as if he could hardly breathe.

“I think thou shouldst meet, somewhere, at some time.” Vanimórë laid a hand on his back, smoothing it.

“Because of...what happened?”

“Yes, and because...”

Legolas watched his mouth compress, the eyes veil themselves under long ashes.  
“Listen,” he continued quietly, strain like yoked oxen in his voice. “I am Prince of Sud Sicanna, yes. I have been so since Sauron's defeat. Before that, and for a long time, I was his slave.” There was a tiny pause before the last word, and for Legolas the wind turned cold. Instinctively he leaned closer to Maglor, heard his harsh inhalation of breath.

“He was not destroyed in the last battle on the slopes of Orodruin,” Vanimórë said flatly. “He was greatly reduced, and his spirit fled away to rebuild his form. And so, I was free for a time. I am free until he recoups his strength. And he will. I am bound to him by sorcery. He is stronger than I. He will call to me, and I will go back to him, as I have ever have, after the War of Wrath, after Númenor's fall.”

Legolas found himself within Maglor's arms, felt the Fëanorion's heart beating hard and fast against his back.

“And that, Legolas, is why I cannot keep thee. Were I free to do as I wished, it would be a different matter entirely.”

He turned, still kneeling, drew the thick braid of hair over one shoulder, and unbuckled the belt of his breeches, pushing them down over his hips. At the base of his spine was stamped a red eye, with a cat's elongated pupil, and stylized flames about the rim. It looked fresh, as if some-one had drawn it, or rather branded it into his skin, only yesterday, and Legolas felt it pierce through his soul, sharp as a red-hot awl.

~~~

Sauron listened as he lead the horse back to the lines. Vanimórë had pitched his voice low enough so that his men would not hear, but Sauron had no difficulty.

Half the truth; enough to explain to Legolas why Vanimórë was not a desirable protector, whereas the whole truth of his parentage would terrify Legolas and strip away the trust Vanimórë had so diligently fostered. The wood-Elf was afraid anyway, that was clear to see, and easier to _feel._ Maglor's arms had come about him in a protective gesture.

It had been easy, once he was close to his son, to drink in Vanimórë's energy, use it to shield himself, and then to search in the young wood-Elf's vulnerable mind. He had no defenses. Discovering whom had fathered the child had excited Sauron, but not troubled him until now. Glorfindel. _Glorfindel._ The child's blood was rich with power, and Sauron recognized it as Eldarin, as one might recognize the taste of a certain wine, but nothing else. He had avoided the reborn Elf-lord when he sensed his presence in Lindon long ago, and after in Ost-in-Edhil, until his position there was unassailable. Sauron certainly did not want to meet Glorfindel now, but from what Vanimórë had said, he was still far away, and this was not the same prince whose blazing aura Sauron had felt like the Sun's fire on his soul. Glorfindel had raped the wood-Elf, then forgotten him, and his pursuit of Legolas was purely avaricious, to claim the son he had so violently fathered. Or so Sauron had thought, until two nights ago, when he had tasted the edge of the link that suddenly snapped like lightning from Glorfindel to Legolas.

There was still power in Glorfindel, no matter that it was charred dark, and _that_ was amusing. He had seen the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower _blazing_ in Mordor. Whom could have foretold that he would fall so far?

 _Well, perhaps I could have._ Any great light casts black shadows.

But this had changed the nature of the game. Sauron could no longer explore Legolas mind, (which surprised him.) and he had no bond with Glorfindel save one of hate. Vanimórë could be blinded because he was so close, not merely in terms of proximity, but by dint of his relationship. Maglor, who could have been so very dangerous, groped through a fog through which shapes loomed at times before fading. Sauron did not know what had brought that forgetfulness down upon him, but it was likely his torment, and the long years alone. Glorfindel however, represented a real threat. Sauron would have to be very strong to meet him, if it came to that.

Vanimórë rose. His shoulders were braced, his face stern. He reached out hesitantly to Legolas, who stared back, face frozen, moon-pale. His fingers swept gently down the wood-Elf's cheek.

 _It will break thee in the end, my son,_ Sauron thought, almost regretfully. _If thou art not very careful. That terrible need of thine to be loved for what thou art. Never mind._ I _truly do appreciate_ all _thou art._  
He watched as Legolas' eyes hazed like a misty sky. Maglor took the child, who showed signs of distress, reaching out to Legolas, and crying as Vanimórë half-lead, half carried Legolas into the small tent.

~~~

Legolas felt as if a well opened under his feet. He was falling, the circle of light vanishing to a pinhole, leaving him in a darkness where there was nothing to hold on to. This was the heart of loneliness that ate tears and pleas alike, the chasm within himself.

He heard himself weeping.

_Whom art thou?_

The voice was very close. Legolas flinched as something touched his face. Fingers, solid and warm, yet he was blind. There was no direction; he stood on, and in a dream.

 _Who are_ you? he whispered.

_I am what was._

Another hand touched him, both cupped his face.

_I am what may be._

_I do not understand!_ He reached up, knowing he had no physical form, yet his own hands sought and found the pair that held him. Desperate for reality, for comfort, he traced smooth skin over small hillocks of knuckles, long fingers, slender, strong.

_Where am I?_

_Thou knowest this place. It is that part of us we try to forget, to fill with light and love. It is emptiness._

Yes.

 _Why are you here?_ Legolas' phantom hands found a wrist, hard forearms, biceps taut with muscle, wide shoulders. He stepped – did he? there was nothing under him – forward. The void was terrifying; he had the sense that he was touching something that frayed back into nothing, that existed only for as long as it took his fingers to trace flesh and sinew.  
A throat, the line of a jaw, a suave sweep of skin up to high cheekbones, a hairline, down again to the double bow of full lips, and now the unknown hands were caressing his own face, or where his face would be if he had one. A thumb passed over his mouth. And yet there was nothing to see.

_Do not cry._

_Help me!_

_Help me._ The words came back to him as if they rebounded from a wall of blank shadow. Yet another had spoken them, some-one so close that Legolas should have been able to feel the heat of their body. He could not. Oh, Eru, was this a houseless soul?

_How can I help you?_

_Find me, Legolas._

_Where are you?_

_I am with thee._

And then a kiss, like the collision of the Sun and Moon.

~~~

“Glorfindel?”  
He blinked, the blue intensity if his eyes focusing slowly.

“Glorfindel, what is it?”

Leagues away, the boundary of the Greenwood limned the horizon deep green. The east wind sweeping the treetops came to them like the sound of a distant sea. It tugged free strands of Glorfindel's hair, bright as gold wire in the sunlight.

“Legolas has to find him.”

“Find whom?”

Glorfindel shook his head a little, and seemed truly to see Tindómion for the first time.  
“What did I say?” A frown tugged his fine brows.

“You said, _'Legolas has to find him?'_ What happened to you?”  
 _Vanimórë?_

 _I frightened Legolas._ Vanimórë's voice, hard with anger, was audible to both of them. _I had to tell him I was a slave of Sauron and thus could not keep him. No, I did not tell him I was Sauron's son. And this was enough._

 _That was a foolish thing to do!_ Tindómion flashed at him.

 _No,_ Glorfindel said. _It had to be done. It is true that Legolas cannot remain with thee. But what happened to him?_

_I am not sure. He was shocked; he did not faint, but his awareness was otherwhere, as if he fell inside himself, into his own soul._

“What exactly did you feel?” Tindómion asked as they rode on, searching for water, for the Anduin was behind them now, but smaller streams found their way to the river.

“I do not know.” Glorfindel's face was set ahead, as if he could pull the leagues into his eyes and reduce the distance they had yet to travel. “I felt Legolas falling. As Vanimórë said, inside himself...” He raised a hand to the air. “He fell inside himself. He was afraid, and where can he run to?”

“Can you feel him now?”

There was a long pause. “Yes. He and the child both. It is very strange.”

Tindómion was satisfied with the admission, at least for the moment. Glorfindel was deeply unsettled.

~~~

“I judged the peace too important to risk exposing him.”  
Celeirdúr knew that he sounded defensive in the face of Bainalph's outrage, and he resented it. “And there is another reason. I want Legolas to return to the Greenwood, _with his son!_ ”

Bainalph's teeth snapped shut whitely, then he drew a breath and said: “You think your father would never accept Legolas if he knew.” He frowned over Celeirdúr's scathing: “I _know_ he would not!” then cursed.  
“Glorfindel,” and his tone made the very name an imprecation.

“Legolas never knew who he was.”

“Hardly would he!” Bainalph exclaimed scornfully. “How did he evade our people? And you, you were in Imladris. You saw him, spoke to him?”

“Of course. I had to. Do not think I did not try my best to hurt him when he revealed it.” He found he did not want to admit that Glorfindel had bested him, but Bainalph said nothing derogatory, though his face was a mask fashioned of pearl. “He is very skilled. I am ashamed he got through our guards, but he did. I was going to ensure such a thing never happened again when I returned, but...”

“But you decided you had to search for Legolas.” The gold-green eyes flashed back to Celeirdúr, narrowed in thought then widened, catching the light from the sun. “What _else_ have you not told me, Prince?”

Celeirdúr loosed a breath.  
“Glorfindel left Imladris to search for Legolas.”

“Oh, _did he?_ ” Bainalph flung round, threw back his head as if begging understanding or sanity from the sky. “He knows this son of Sauron, yes? You said the Imladrians knew of him.”

“Yes,” Celeirdúr said curtly. “They have spoken, mind to mind.”

“Does Glorfindel know where Legolas is?”

“He was in the region of the Sea of Rhun.” He shook his head. “When I was in Imladris, I could do nothing. I was even glad that _some-one_ was searching for Legolas, as I could not.”

“The Sea of Rhun is south-east,” Bainalph said quickly.

“He does not live there; Vanimórë. We know now that his soldiers are southrons. I am not sure Glorfindel does.”

Bainalph stared south and then spun lightly back to face Celeirdúr. “Is Vanimórë _helping_ Glorfindel?”

“I do not know. Glorfindel believed Legolas would be safe with him, at least.”

“Why,” Bainalph said, “do _you_ not ask _Legolas_ how he fares?”

Celeirdúr felt a heat in his cheeks that owed nothing to the sun.

“He _is_ your brother.” There was a light, acid sting in the other's voice.

“I tried.” His admittance was a grudging one.

Bainalph stared, and then something seemed to soften a little inside him.  
“And you could not touch him?”

“No.” Celeirdúr pushed back his hair, turned to his clothes. “There has to be something more than blood-kinship, I think.”

“Love.”

“I was fond of him, but I spent little time with him. I never truly got to know him because I my father preferred me not to. And it was easy.” He buckled his breeches, shook out his shirt savagely. “I had much to do. No, Bainalph.” He bit the name. “There is not enough love, and I cannot touch his mind, but he _and his son,_ must come home.”

“And Glorfindel?” Bainalph's brows flicked up. “Well, you have proved your statesmanship.”

“And what would you have done?” Celeirdúr demanded, goaded by the derision in his eyes, the flaunting nakedness. “The war barely touched Alphgarth, but even you must admit it was wasteful! When Glorfindel told me, I attacked him. Perhaps you would have done better than I,” he snarled. “But I think _you_ would have enjoyed it. No, I _know_ you would.” He turned away and walked to the horses, snatching up a handful of dry grass to make a wisp.

“Oh?” Bainalph murmured, watching him. “I hope we meet him. I truly do.” And there was sword-steel in the words.

Glorfindel. How was it possible? Bainalph had never seen him, but every Elf of the Greenwood knew _of_ him. How could he have evaded capture, come so close to the inner cordon about the halls?  
He dressed, began to braid back his hair.  
“Legolas could not have recognized him, but might he have guessed whom he was?” He was thinking of the young prince, shy and virgin, and the implication embedded in Celeirdúr's last disdainful remark.  
“What does he look like?”

“You could not mistake him,” Celeirdúr did not look around. “He looks like the noonday Sun, and is the most arrogant creature I have ever had the misfortune to meet. He just...saw Legolas and took him.” He straightened, the line of his shoulders rigid, and hurled the wisp down.

And Legolas did not scream. Some-one would have heard him. He did not scream, and had told the king it was a _Mortal_ who lay with him.  
Bainalph had seen a certain expression in the eyes of other men. It was in Thranduil's eyes whenever the king looked at him, that of a predator, of a man who wishes to sexually conquer another. He could imagine Glorfindel coming upon Legolas in all his delicate beauty...A light shudder, part fear, wholly sexual, ran through him.  
Legolas had not known Glorfindel... _So why did he lie?_  
Bainalph wished suddenly, fiercely, that he could talk to Legolas himself, reassure him, tell him that it was not wrong to enjoy submission, for Glorfindel, from all that Bainalph had ever heard, from what he drew from Celeirdúr's words, was utterly dominant, and he would look on Legolas as a feast laid out in the forest for him to devour. Of course looks could deceive, but in Glorfindel's case, they probably did not, and Bainalph could unerringly recognize those who shared his own predilections. Closing his eyes he summoned the memory of the last time he had seen the young prince. Yes, it was all there, waiting to be awoken. Bainalph was furious; furious that the Captain of Imladris could enter the forest without being detected, that he had taken Legolas and left him to face the wrath of the king, that Thranduil had never spoken to his youngest son of the mystery his body contained, and exiled him, that Celeirdúr had not done enough, that he himself had not.

“Let us ride.” The words, or perhaps the way he spoke them, earned him a look of surprise from Celeirdúr's steely-blue eyes. Bainalph smiled at him with no mirth at all.  
“Blood and Beauty,” he quoted distinctly.

~~~

Red. Black. Blood. A voice like silk and metal. _Scream,_ it told him. And, _no,_ he would not, would not speak, not scream, not...  
A fall into pain.  
A high window clutching a chunk of ember sky, riving it with bars. Another voice: _I will give thee...myself._  
Warmth. Flesh on flesh. Flesh _within_ flesh, _Ah, Eru!_ And a scent, the scent of...

“Are you all-right?”

Legolas' blue eyes were staring anxiously into his own. One of Gîl's little hands was patting at him, and for a moment, caught on the cusp of dream and daylight, he saw the child grown; a man with a glorious mane of golden hair.  
 _Glorfindel._

Vanimórë was standing nearby. The sun, behind him, aureoled him in light. It was impossible to see his expression until he crouched, and held out a cup.

_The scent of sandalwood..._

“Yes,” Nhidan said. “I think...” He drank, and the wine flowed over his tongue, sweeping the images away. But not the perfume. It breathed from Vanimórë's skin. He shed it with every movement, unsettling, earthy, sensual.

“I do not know.”

The purple eyes blinked once slowly, catlike, then turned to Legolas.

“Please trust me,” Vanimórë said.

“I have to trust you,” the prince whispered. “You have looked after me, protected me. And wh-what...” His white throat moved in a convulsive swallow. “what else can I do?”

“But you fear me now.”

“I fear...him.”

“I have felt no _clear_ or strong emanations from him since the One Ring was cut from his finger. But one day...dost thou understand, my dear? One day, he will return.”

Legolas gazed at him, and then reached out a hand, slim and hesitant. Vanimórë's took it gently.

“I have sworn to protect thee.” A fleeting smile crossed his mouth, and Nhidan saw pain in it, a rueful acknowledgement that whatever Legolas said or did, the situation had changed, and now there would be mistrust, even fear. And there was a longing there, an ancient, almost weary need to be accepted.

_Slave of Sauron._

“We must leave soon,” was all he said, moving away.

“Legolas.”

The wind caught the prince's hair, tugging at damp, shining strands. He looked back.

“Do not fear him,” he murmured. “I do not pretend to understand how he can be enslaved to Sauron, but – ”

Sauron...

The sucking pit opened again.

_Scream._   
_Scream, Kinslayer! Scream._   
_No.  
Fatherfatherfather..._

“Please!”

The sun slammed against his eyes. Legolas had caught his shoulder.

“Please,” he was saying. “What is wrong?”

“I...”

Legolas smelt of fern-cool shadows, of water springing clear as ice from stony freshets. Nhidan closed his eyes, rested his brow against the prince's.

  
Sauron, flinging the saddle on his horse, watched. It was a delicate business, and not without some risk, for he knew the strength of the Fëanorion's mind, even lost and damaged by grief. But he believed he could hide himself from Maglor, whereas Vanimórë most certainly could not. And Legolas felt something for Maglor, call it gratitude or desire or trust, whereas his trust in Vanimórë had undoubtedly been shaken. Maglor was a Kinslayer, but he was not a thrall of Sauron. If Legolas came to fear for himself, or more probably, his son _enough,_ if Maglor remembered Mordor and Vanimórë, there might be an opportunity to cut both he and Legolas out of the pack...

Vanimórë, turning from his officers, looked across at the two, faintly frowning.

_He is willing for Legolas to look to Maglor for comfort. How unsurprising, my foolish, noble son._

  
“I do not...”

“Drink,” Legolas pressed the winecup back into his hands. “What is it?”

“I do not _know!_ ” Maglor caught back his cry, so that it emerged a hiss of despair. “Sauron...” His face winced away from the name. “Oh, Eru, what happened to me? _Who am I?_ ”

This time Legolas winced, at the despair in the Fëanorion's voice, the look in his eyes of one driven to the edge of madness, to a wasteland of unknowing. He too knew this desolation, and did not pause to think, wanting only to give Maglor something to hold, because Legolas knew how vital it was.

“I am sorry,” he said softly. “I do not know you, but I know _who_ you are.” He touched Maglor's shoulder timidly, felt it hard as stone, tremors running under it. “I can give you a name. You are Maglor, the second-born son of Fëanor.”

  
And that, Sauron had not anticipated at all. Nor, by the look on his face, had Vanimórë.

~~~


	28. ~ The Bitter And The Beautiful ~

~ Vanimórë, without seeming to move from one point to another, was suddenly beside Legolas. His men, needing no word, were alert, the prescience rippling out from the closest to those furthest away.

And Sauron watched...

Maglor fell inward. He reached out as he did so, as if to arrest his fall, though he did not move.

“Canst thou see now?” some-one asked him, the voice of a jewel, the voice of fire. “Canst thou _feel?_ ”

He was in the darkness again, but only for a moment. It scattered into rags, and through it, he felt himself supported, held.

As he saw...

...A city, shining-white in a light that was not sun nor moon, but both softer and more brilliant, and older, he knew. A man sitting at feast, who turned, and three jewels burned on his brow, scintillant and impossible, but no more brilliant than his eyes. He was _magnificent,_ and _known,_ terribly, gloriously known.

Nhidan, who was Maglor, said: _Father._

Then the visions filled him and devoured him in the bright flash of swords, the red of blood swarming across creamy quays into the sea. He felt the deck of a ship tilt under him as the vessel battled a storm that turned the sky black and the wind to shrieks of vengeance. He saw his father under the the ember cloud of creatures made of power and fire, was too far away to prevent the burning sword fall...  
And part of his soul died as the light faded from those jeweled eyes, and tears scalded his face, his brothers' faces.

 _My brothers..._  
Copper-haired, milk-pale, black as his own, eyes of silver and black, and another face with his father's profile, star-blue eyes.

 _Fingolfin._

 _My father.  
Fëanor._

He fought battles, he knew triumph, and bitter, bitterest sadness, as all those faces, known and beloved, were lost. They died in fire and they died in blood. And he, left alone, he...

A vast tower, clouds of steam burying its uppermost levels. And then he was screaming, but within himself, for he must _not speak._ He might beg, if he spoke, and _I will not beg!_

But the pain, and he was choking...choking.

Then arms drew him from the pain, and cleansed him, held him, cherished him...

 _Sandalwood._

Maglor was heavy with memories. Vanimórë saw his life's journey flow into him, like a river that poured itself through every vein, enriching them with his forgotten blood and heritage, with all its tarnished glamor and glory. He watched as Maglor remembered Barad-dûr, was with him to the moment he bathed and dried him, laid him down, and he waited for the knowledge of what had passed between them to strike the Fëanorion – only for it to melt into uncertainty. Whether that was Dana's doing or simply that Maglor could not, in the deeps of his soul, face it as yet, Vanimórë did not know. He believed the former; since Fëanor's death had wounded Maglor more deeply even than torture; he had faced that, and the deaths of his brothers.

And that was enough, Vanimórë thought. More than enough. It was so wrong to live without memory, even dreadful ones, yet this awakening was savage.

Legolas was saying, appalled: “I am sorry, so sorry!” and Gîl was making little sounds indicative of comfort.

Maglor's eyes seemed to see nothing for a moment. The silver was dark, like the storm light over a northern sea, filled with images of lost glory and love that had outlasted death itself.

“I was Maglor...” The affirmation came with grief. Vanimórë held out one hand, and Tanout, ever alert to his lord's needs, brought a cup of wine.

“Thou _art_ Maglor,” Vanimórë corrected gently, as the Fëanorion drank without thinking, probably without tasting.

“Yes.” And, “Oh, Eru.”

It was too much, too overwhelming, and yet Maglor could endure it and encompass it, because it was his history, his life. Vanimórë did not know if he could have endured seeing his sister's death again. But Maglor did not weep or deny. He took the burden of his birthright and absorbed it. Vanimórë watched it settle, layer by layer, all the dark, the bright, the anguish, all the immense love, into his soul.

“Thou,” Maglor said, with difficulty. “in Barad-dûr.”

Vanimórë found himself perversely wishing that Maglor recalled all of that time, even while realizing how disastrous it might be. But the fact that he had seduced the Fëanorion in such a place, after torment, did not exactly redound to his credit, and would not be likely to increase Legolas trust.  
He said: “I am not a willing slave of the Dark.” Which was true enough.

“No,” Maglor agreed, searching his face. “I do not yet...what happened after that?”

“I let thee go,” Vanimórë said. “When Sauron er... _accepted_ the Númenorean king's invitation. He wanted me to bring thee to Númenor.”

Maglor shook his head. “Ships,” he frowned. “I remember: great ships with tattered sails sailing out of the west.”

That must have been after his release, Vanimórë guessed. He had returned to the coasts, then.

“That was...how long ago?” Maglor wondered.

“Hundreds of years. I know not where thou hast been in that time. I do know that Dana found thee nigh to Mordor.”

“Dana,” Maglor repeated, and closed his eyes. Legolas glanced at Vanimórë, and there was a glowing expression on his face of gratitude and awe.  
 _Do not make me into a hero, my dear,_ he thought privately.

“She will not tell me.” Maglor's voice was tinged with the frustration that Vanimórë so often felt when dealing with the Mother's elliptical avoidance of direct questions, or rather those she had no intention of answering. “She said the memories will return.”

“They will,” Vanimórë assured him.

“And yet whatever happened to me, still I should not have _forgotten,_ ” Maglor protested vehemently.

“There is a reason for all things,” Vanimórë said. _Even if I know not what those reasons are, and Eru knows, I never have._

“Too glib,” Maglor challenged, and Vanimórë had to smile. The deep-burning fire that he had seen in Barad-dûr, that the horror and shame had not been able to extinguish, had returned to the Fëanorion's eyes like an old and welcomed friend. Vanimórë did not regret what he had done, and he believed Maglor's hatred was founded on pride, but he would never admit it. It was as well that, for the time being, he remained oblivious.

“Indeed it is, but I have no more answers for thee.” More softly, “Dost thou wish to be alone?”

There was scarce anywhere he could be alone in an armed camp, but he could walk away, or sit within the tent. Maglor shook his head. Pride again. He would bear his pain under the sun and the eyes of the well-trained but curious Sicannites.

“I think I have been alone too much,” he responded. “And I must thank thee, for I know that I owe thee my life. ”

“Thou art very strong,” Vanimórë demurred. “I think thou wouldst have survived.”

“As what?” Maglor asked bitterly. He looked away. “And thou...he, Sauron, expected thee to bring me to him?”

 _I never indulge in pointless optimism,_ thought Vanimórë's father, easily able to follow the exchange of Sindarin. _Or perhaps I do,_ he corrected himself with a wry smile.

Vanimórë shrugged.  
“Those were my orders. I disobey, when possible, and certainly in that instance.”

 _I would have wagered on it,_ Sauron agreed.

“What happened to thee?” Maglor asked, black brows drawn down into a frown.

“Does it matter?” The returned question was indifferent on the surface, but it did not fool either Sauron or the Fëanorion.

“It matters. I will not ask why, but _whom art thou?_ ” And the words gave him pause, for he had asked, silently, time and again _Whom art thou? What art thou?_ in Barad-dûr. Sauron felt the stab of memory, saw it in his mind like wine and silken fire.

“I am no-one.” Vanimórë was smiling, a mirror of Sauron's own. “I am nothing.”

“No!” Maglor flashed. “Neither of those things. Thou art Noldo, and of some great House, I think.”

“I doubt it.” All the amusement withered. “And _that_ last most certainly does not matter. Thou knowest the weight of bearing the name of a great House, Maglor Fëanorion.”

Maglor coloured. His voice came with some difficulty, cramped by anguish and passion.  
“I will not listen to my House traduced by _any-one._ Did we not pay for all we did in effecting our Oath an hundred times over?”

“I did not mean that,” Vanimórë said gently. “Yes. I verily believe thou hast paid.” He turned to Legolas, watching with huge, grave eyes. “I assume that thou hast remembered Glorfindel?”

Perhaps grateful for the conversation to turn in another direction, Maglor looked at the young prince, and his expression changed.

“Glorfindel was a friend.” He sounded puzzled and angry. “Bright and valiant and courageous. He is kin to me. But he _died._ Gondolin fell, and word came to us on Amon Ereb. He died fighting a Balrog, as did...my father, and Fingon.”

“He died and returned. He was at the Last Alliance when the Elves and Men of Westernessë fought against Sauron. I was a prisoner of war for seven years.”

“Have any others returned from death?”

Sauron could see the need to hope in the silver eyes. He had wondered about the Fëanorions fate himself, and doubted that any had been offered rebirth. He had never seen Valinor, having joined Melkor long before the Valar settled Aman, but he knew the Ainur, and had glimpsed Valinor through the minds of the Elves. What he had learned had, in part, decided him not to give himself up to the judgement of the Valar. No doubt some, at least, had been glad to be rid of the the troublesome Fëanorions, and were relieved when they died. Yet what a damned waste.

“I have never heard it,” Vanimórë said after too long a pause. “But I do not dwell among the Elves.”

“Legolas?”

Thus addressed by Maglor, the prince looked discomfited, and stammered: “We...we know little of the Noldor now, my lord. But I have only heard of...Glorfindel.”

“I did not truly dare to hope,” Maglor said, wild agony like a thread-vein through his words. Sauron watched Vanimórë's hand go out, close on the Fëanorion's shoulder.

“I do not know. I think the only way to know would be to journey to Valinor. They say that there are still Elven ships that sail.”

Legolas nodded, for though it was not the custom of the Elves of the Greenwood to leave Middle-earth, all knew that there was still a road across the sea into the ancient West.

“If I had wanted to place myself under the judgement of the Valar, ” Maglor said. “I would have done so long since.”

“You must have been so alone!” Legolas exclaimed with all his impulsive compassion, and knowing loneliness very well. Maglor's stormy, beautiful face softened, looking at him.  
“The wergild demanded of my survival,” he murmured. “I do not think they have been reborn. We swore that the Everlasting Dark would take us if we did not fulfil our oath.” And he could not bear that thought, Sauron saw. All that brilliance and power and yes, beauty he was well able to appreciate, lost forever.

“Eru is not so cruel,” Legolas protested softly.

“I would like to think so,” Maglor said. “But the truth is we know naught of Him.”

“Thou shouldst ask Dana,” Vanimórë suggested, bringing a rueful smile to Maglor's mouth.  
“I did.”

“She would not answer?”

“She said the Music has not yet ended.”

“That sounds exactly like something she would say.”

Sauron had listened whenever they mentioned Dana, and now understood that they were indeed speaking of a real person, not a mythological being. Vanimórë and Maglor appeared to know her. It puzzled Sauron, for his son was not the kind of man to be fooled in such a way. He had known Melkor, had seen Balrogs and werewolves. The only explanation was that he had _not_ been fooled and the Mother walked the Earth once more. Sauron had delicately brushed over Vanimórë's mind, and found absolute belief, but did not, at this moment, want to risk a deeper exploration. His son was suspicious, though only of Osulf the Northman; he did not suspect Osulf of being his own father. In fact, this was the easiest (and most elegant) way of regathering his enormously depleted powers. Vanimórë's blood-link, his energy, the gifts he barely used, were a rich lode for Sauron to tap, forever renewed by his son's life-force. And Sauron was not going to risk alienating himself from that source, not until the royal and unique blood of the Sindarin prince and his child flooded like Red Harvest into his being. Then, only then, could he confront Vanimórë. But Sauron was in no hurry. There was a delicious irony in being so close, observing his son without the barriers he inevitably flung up when in Sauron's presence. It was, too, _fascinating._ Sauron had long known Vanimórë's worth, but had never seen him living his life.

“What wilt thou do?”

Maglor shook his head. “I know not. For now, I will travel with thee. I am sworn to Legolas and Gîlríon. And,” his eyes flashed silver lightning. “I want to see Glorfindel. ”

~~~

As they rode higher up the pass, the wind blew strong and chill between black gullies. They followed a creamy torrent that at last rose far above their narrow path, plunging hundreds of ells from some unseen spring. Legolas was not cold, but Vanimórë had wrapped him in a wonderfully warm cloak of some soft, oil-treated wool, and dressed Gîl in clothes suitable for the winter, despite the fact that midsummer was not long passed. Looking back as the track climbed, Legolas saw the Sicannite warriors strung out one or two abreast. It was wild, desolate, but at whiles he saw the tough, delicate flowers of high places, and an eagle soared in the sun-washed blue, hanging motionless on great wings whose pinions stroked the air. The path elbowed and looped its way up the flank of a grey-black mountain, and at one point Legolas looked down at a drop of scree near as steep as a wall. Heights did not alarm him, but the warriors rode cautiously, for there had been rock falls that sometimes littered the track. He heard the youth, Shemar, whisper something in his own tongue, a prayer perhaps, and Tanout's reply, calm and reassuring.

Legolas thought this was the most unfriendly place he had ever seen; it had a bleak grandeur all its own, but to a child of the forest, it seemed inimical to life, and the wind howled a storm as they passed through two massive fang-like rocks. But beyond them the path dropped less steeply, winding its way down between the mountain's shoulders. Slowly, the cliffs rose above them, iron-black against a sky that very slowly darkened to the deepest blue. Vanimórë called a halt, and signaled to his men to take a drink of fiery emberwine.

They camped in that inhospitable pass that night, and spent three more days in the mountains, the soldiers alert and watchful. There was no sign that Men ever came here, though Vanimórë said the route was traveled by those who knew the way.

Maglor had ridden behind Legolas since breaking their first camp, bearing a weight of memories like the mountains. It was so familiar. There was a sense of guilt and outrage that he should have forgotten his life. The love he had always felt for his dear and damned brothers, his nonpareil of a father, his strong mother, his kin, was remembered with a dreadful relief. They returned to him as they had so many times since their deaths. He wanted to weep, but would not, not even before the sympathetic eyes of Legolas and Vanimórë. And so he bore it as they rode, clutching it to him possessively. There were yet some things he could not remember: a shadow over the Havens of Sirion, a blankness between Vanimórë laying him on a soft bed and his riding west from Mordor, how he had come to meet Dana. And why had Vanimórë not said anything in Szrel Kain, or after? Had the Mother instructed him not to? At least it explained his formerly incomprehensible reaction to this strange slave of Sauron. Maglor had known, even in his forgetfulness, that he could trust him. As they rode, he watched the straight-backed figure, tall in the saddle, and wondered; wondered how he had come to be captured, what sorcery could hold one with such strength of will, such dashing élan. And, too, he considered Legolas and Glorfindel. Glorfindel reborn, and fallen more surely than he had fallen at legendary Cristhorn, raping an innocent.

Maglor remembered Doriath, and it did not take any great mental leap to draw the comparisons between Legolas' home and the forest realm he and his brothers had attacked. Nor was he surprised when Vanimórë told him that Legolas' father had been born in Doriath.

“I thank thee,” he said to Legolas. “Knowing whom I was, yet thou hast spoken me fair.” And more, though he did not wish to add to the prince's difficulties, so he did not append his words.

“You have never hurt me,” Legolas responded gravely. “You saved my life, you and Tanout.”

What could Maglor say? _I would never hurt thee nor any-one._ It was untrue. The Oath had lead him to do terrible things, had lead all of them. And yet, Eru, _Eru!_ he missed them so.


	29. ~ Shadows In The Halls Of Memory ~

Legolas was awake, fingertips tingling. The wind had dropped at dusk, as it had every night, and the small sounds of the camp came clear, but he was used to those. It had not been they that woke him so suddenly. Beside him, Gîl made a sound, and Legolas' hand went out to touch him. The child was radiantly warm, but he too, was awake.

And then a horse stamped nervously, and whickered. Lainiell. Legolas sat up, and then came the howl. Long and lonely and far-off, as yet, clear in the quiet night.  
A wolf howl. Legolas had never heard the sound, but he knew what it was. His people had known it in the deeps of time, and ever after. Heart bounding high and fast, he leaned to unloose the tent-flaps. Chill air whispered in, and the mountain night opened about him, roofless, immense. A horned moon scythed low in the south, and stars dazzled the sky. For a moment he let their light pour into his eyes and then turned as a figure moved nearby. Vanimórë. Legolas had seen before how his eyes retained their colour in the dark.

“Wolf,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Vanimórë said. “And it is a Fell-wolf.” He crouched lithely and flung an arm about the prince's tense shoulders. “Do not worry.” He dropped a light kiss on Legolas hair.

Fell-wolves were said to be the descendents of the gigantic wolves of Angband. Sheltered though his life had always been, Legolas knew well enough that normal wolves rarely attacked people, but Fell-wolves came down from the north in deep winter to harry the borders of the Greenwood. He remembered something Celeirdúr had told him, of the Blood Winter, when the orcs and Fell-wolves had attacked in savage, starving swarms. He shivered, and Vanimórë's arm tightened reassuringly.

“They never hunt alone.”

“No,” Vanimórë said. “They do not. It is close to dawn. We will leave at first light.”  
He rose, walked away, and fires began to spring up in his wake like red-gold blossoms. Men stirred, rolled out of their blankets. Legolas withdrew into the tent, drawing Gîl to him to nurse. He thought, though he did not know why, of his elder brother's visit to him five years ago. There had been another with him, a tall slender man, creamy hair in a multitude of braids, long-lidded gilded-green eyes, and a face startling in its delicate beauty. He had not spoken to Legolas, neither had Celeirdúr introduced him, which even then had seemed discourteous, but there had been the flicker of a smile on a sultry mouth, a long, summing, and not unfriendly look. After the man had gone, Celeirdúr had told Legolas that the stranger was Bainalph, Prince of Alphgarth. Of course, Legolas thought now, it had been Alphgarth that suffered the worst of the attacks in the Blood Winter. He had had never been there, but he had heard of Bainalph, the only Elf of the Greenwood to bear the title 'prince' outside the House of Oropher.

He closed his eyes. How far he was from home! and he could never return, for each step lead him further away. He had borne Glorfindel a child, had accepted comfort, in all its sensual glory from one who was a servant of the Enemy, and a Fëanorion. Since Vanimórë's admittance to being enslaved to Sauron, Legolas had thought and thought about how it changed matters. The truth was, it had not, or not very much. There was nothing he could do except trust, for Gîl's sake. He had seen and felt Vanimórë's terror that one night in Szrel Kain, when dream had taken him back to Angband. When he had asked _How did you escape?_ the reply had been: _“I did not.”_ , and Legolas had imagined that Vanimórë had not escaped the memories, for who could? Now, the true meaning was clear, and Legolas' soul recoiled at what it meant. Yet Vanimórë was the antithesis of a victim; as effortlessly commanding, as arrogant as Glorfindel. Was it possible that some-one, having suffered, could overcome it and become a person of worth?

“Legolas, may I come in?”

He lifted his head.  
“Of course.” But he turned away, covering himself with the loose sheet of his hair. Maglor made no remark as he set down dried fruit and meat, a water-skin. Legolas slanted him a quick look, saw the faint frown.

“Gîl is almost finished,” he apologized, and the frown smoothed away.

“Such things cannot be hurried.” Maglor knelt, pouring water into a cup, stilled as the howl mourned at the night again. It was joined by another. Legolas jerked, and his nipple slid from Gîl's milky mouth. The child gasped, protested.

“They are far away,” Maglor told him.

And yet they ran very fast.

“Are they coming this way?” Legolas felt nervous and useless.

“I think so,” Maglor affirmed, and laid a hand on his back.

~~~

Glorfindel sat up.  
“Wolves,” he said.

Tindómion stared at him across the ashes of the dead fire. The night was encased in a fist of mild starlight.

“Where?” he asked softly.

Glorfindel came to his feet, gold in the dimness.  
“Where my son is,” he said. “Where Legolas is.”

~~~

~ Sulluth had been expecting the summons. The king was no fool, and it would not take long for him to know that both his eldest son and Bainalph had vanished. That he had sent Brongalen and no lesser captain to Alphgarth boded ill. Ten warriors accompanied the lord, and Eludhuin had seen to their comfort while Brongalen waited for Sulluth to accompany him back to the king's halls.

The two men did not know one another well. Alphgarth had steadily become more isolated under Bainalph's rule, and that sense and actuality of sequestration stemmed directly from Thranduil's dislike of the prince. It had never been so in his parent's time but now, those who loved the king did not visit Alphgarth unless compelled, and Bainalph, who was proud, rarely left his home unless a council were called.  
Brongalen was neither threatening nor reassuring, wearing a blandly courteous mien. No doubt he was hoping that his men would learn something as they were given food and wine. Sulluth doubted it, though all Alphgarth knew where their prince had gone and what might proceed from his actions. Bainalph had ordered that Sulluth inform them when he returned, and allow them to decide their response to the consequences themselves. From the manor to the outlying forest the word had flown, and Sulluth was warmed but not surprised to realize the peoples loyalty. Some, including his wife had thought it typical of the prince, whimsical but dangerous, more were shocked, but no-one publicly denounced Bainalph.

Thranduil would.

Brongalen was uncommunicative during the ride to the halls. It became uncomfortably like a prisoner's escort, and Sulluth was well aware that he himself could – and truly – be accused of treachery.

~~~

Thranduil had known. When Celeirdúr defied him in council, he had _known_ in his soul what his son purposed, even if he could not force himself to believe it. But when Celeirdúr evaded those who watched him and did not return to the halls, Thranduil sent to Alphgarth. Bainalph was the obvious sympathizer, and it was he whom had lead Celeirdúr from the council. The two had been in Bainalph's chambers for some time. What had passed between them? Thranduil wondered, hating the images which unfurled across his mind. Yet his son would not be in Alphgarth, and nor, he guessed, would the Cúalphii. It was a forlorn hope. The king used those bootless days to think, to beat down the savage fury, the grief and fear that, if unleashed, could wreak so much harm. His eruption in council had already torn a rift in the relationship between he and his son, if it had not been there before, (indeed, had not Celeirdúr been changed on his return from Imladris?) but that letter had struck to the heart of what he was now, after Elvýr's death, and his reaction had been as instinctive as the cry of a wounded man.  
There was no-one Thranduil could speak to. None of his people mentioned Elvýr or Legolas save Bainalph. The king had erected a barrier about himself, and even those whom had known him since childhood did not attempt to breach it. Too much pain lived behind it.

 _“You cling to your shame,”_ the Cúalphii had challenged. Only _he_ had ever tried to cross the cold, blood-red river of shame and horror, and the king was appalled at how easily he had done so both times. From the night in the library, until apprised of Celeirdúr's disappearance, the king had steeped in dark, vivid turmoil. If he could have safely killed Bainalph then, he believed he would have.  
And now...

When Brongalen escorted Sulluth into his private room, the captain's knowledge was clear in his eyes. Tightening rage hardened the king's sinews to steel.  
“Leave us,” he said, surprised at how level, how calm his voice sounded. When the door softly shut, he rose from his chair.

“And so, where is my son?”

Sulluth was pale but in full command of his voice and bearing. He said: “My prince told me to tell you, Sire. If you asked.”

“I am _asking_!” Thranduil's control shattered. He strode toward Sulluth and ripped away the brooch that held his cloak at the shoulder; Bainalph's insignia, two swans whose curving necks formed a blood-red heart. _Agar a Baneth_ ran the runes about the rim. _Blood and Beauty._

“He is determined to seek out and find Prince Legolas. And return with him.”

That Sulluth could say the name, even give the title to Thranduil's face said much about his courage. The edges of the brooch dug hard into the king's palm as he clenched his hand.  
“Celeirdúr is _with_ him in this treacherous folly?”

“My Lord said he would go alone, or with Prince Celeirdúr.”

“Your _Lord_ could ride into Mordor with my goodwill! You know he has exiled himself?”

And Thranduil he could proclaim it. Bainalph had defied him in the matter of Legolas, but merely to speak of him had not provided the king with the grounds to banish him. And Alphgarth was important, holding the north-west border as it did. Despise its prince though he did, Thranduil knew well he could not punish Bainalph until he greatly overstepped his bounds. Now he had done just that, giving the king the perfect opportunity to declare him traitor. But he had done it in collusion with _Celeirdúr._ The pain of such a betrayal by his best-loved living son was well-nigh insupportable.

“My... _Legolas_ is banished. He will _never_ return!”

Sulluth lifted his chin resolutely.  
“Alphgarth is agreed, Sire, that if you banish our prince, we go into exile with him. But,” he spread his feet light and firm on the floor. “It is law that you must proclaim Prince Bainalph exiled, _to his face._ Your own father brought that law out of Doriath. Until then, Sire – ”

“I know what laws my father set down!”

“– until then, Alphgarth will hold for its prince.”

Thranduil cursed. He had seen _that_ looming on the horizon of Sulluth's thoughts since the captain entered the room. He stared into the man's eyes.

“Are you threatening me,” he said serpent-soft. “with civil war? Would you _all_ make yourselves traitors to the Greenwood, spill the blood of your own people, for that depraved _creature_?”

Sulluth's cheeks flushed. “For our Lord, who is more than worthy of our loyalty, _yes,_ Sire. We would not instigate war, but we will defend ourselves as we hold Alphgarth for the prince.”

Bainalph had _known_ this would happen, how reluctant Thranduil would be to ignite a kinslayer war when one (though the king did not acknowledge the _Golodhrim_ as kin) had, at last, ended.

“He _ordered_ this?”

“You know him not at all, Sire, if you believe he would order anything so base!” Sulluth's words came hot and fast. “There was no command, only a decision to support our prince!”

Thranduil wanted to strike him, but in fairness, he had to admit that Sulluth's loyalty was only that which he would wish to exact for himself. A pain shot through his hand as the rim of the brooch pressed deeper. It helped him to focus.  
Sulluth did not know, Thranduil surmised, though he had long guessed that the Cúalphii had never spoken of that long-ago autumn night to any-one. Would the captain be so unswervingly loyal if he knew of all his prince's perversions?

“Where did they go?” was all he asked.

“My Lord said he would try to track the soldiers who brought the letter to Burh Stane.”

Which was what Thranduil himself would have done.  
“Celeirdúr could die. Your cursed Lord could die, you fool!”

By the flicker in Sulluth's eyes, the king saw that he had struck home, that the other had considered this, and was indeed worried.

“Consider yourself a _guest_ here,” Thranduil told him. “until I decide what to do with you. And Alphgarth.”

~~~

“You cannot do it, Sire,” Brongalen shook his head in emphasis.

Gwaewind flashed him a look, then glanced back to Thranduil.  
“I am sorry to say he is right.”

“Certhech?” the king snapped.

“You _can_ do it, Sire, but I think you will have to prepare for civil war if you do. And you will carry the name of a kinslayer.”

“The Cúalphii is a traitor! Do not tell me that I must overlook _that_!”

“Better to pretend he is not a traitor,” Brongalen advised, choosing his words with some care. “Alphgarth is very strong. Its folk are insular, devoted to their prince. You know, my friend, as well as I, that had I done this thing, or they – ” He gestured to the others. “that our folk would have remained loyal also, whatever came to pass, whatever judgement you pronounced.” He allowed himself a faint smile. “You are not a tyrant, Thranduil, neither was your father, and this is the result: a strong kingdom, with lords under you who have made their own realms rich and powerful. It is the most just rule – and the easiest road to civil war.”

 _But you do not know,_ Thranduil thought, surveying their faces. _You_ cannot _know, because you have never had to murder one of your sons, never seen another born with the same curse that poisoned the first, never carried such a lie as I._

They could not comprehend how he longed for Bainalph to be gone forever. Looking at him, Thranduil saw his own black guilt, yet the Cúalphii's absence in council was startlingly apparent, a gap that should be filled with the distracting chime of amber and pearl, a blossomy scent, a light, sweet voice and glinting gold-green eyes. The king thrust that image aside with a wince of distaste. Were it not for Celeirdúr, he would have counted the traitor well gone, but (and here was where Bainalph's audacity struck to the marrow) he meant to return, and with Legolas.  
Thranduil resented having to bring this before his depleted council, unearthing the pain that he so assiduously tried to bury.

“It is unlikely, I think, that they will find this alleged son of Sauron,” Gwaewind ventured.

“They could easily find his men,” the king said harshly. “And then they have only to follow them.”

The map. Bainalph had seen the map in the library. For all his instant repudiation of the letter, Thranduil was unable to forbear searching for the city named in it. He had not found it, and his own warriors, returning from Burh Stane had brought back information which placed Sud Sicanna in the south of the world. Of course, the Cúalphii had already decided on his course of action, and had come to the library to look at that same map.

“You do believe it true, then?” Brongalen asked. “That there is indeed a son of Sauron?”

With difficulty, Thranduil said: “Yes.”

No-one else spoke, but the king could see them thinking.

“I could lose Celeirdúr.” _And I will_ not _lose him._

“If he and Bainalph can find these southron men, so can any-one,” Certhech offered.

“Yes,” Thranduil agreed. “Any-one.”

Brongalen leaned forward. “Then send men after them, Sire. Their lead cannot be that great. Order them back, and _then_ decide how to answer Bainalph's...treachery. There will be little real harm done if they are found soon.”

“I am not interested in the Cúalphii!” Thranduil bit, and took a long breath. “He may never come back, and Alphgarth can pass to some-one more worthy of it.”

“You would let him continue this quest?” Gwaewind demanded incredulously. “Sire, would it not be better to bid him return? He is one of your subjects and has ever been loyal to you. Alphgarth is – ”

“It is my eldest son I want.” The king flung up a hand, turned it into a gesture of dismissal. “Celeirdúr is driven by a misplaced sense of kinship. The Cúalphii has made it clear that he does not consider himself bound to me or the laws of the Greenwood. Now, I will consider those I wish to follow.”

Alone, he closed his eyes. This must be ended, and now he could see the ending, could make it himself. He permitted himself to sleep as he had not for many nights.

And he dreamed.

He was in some glade, deep-shaded by trees whose dripped their summer harvest of leaves into a still pool. It was very dark and looked deep as the world. Thranduil walked to the edge, and gazed into the water, saw his his head crowned with holly and hawthorn that broke the skin. Trails of blood showed like dark tears, yet there was no pain.  
Then another reflection wavered and stilled beside his, grave, beautiful. He heard himself gasp and spun, but the figure was already turning away, a curtain of hair swirled and sank, concealing his face.

“Elvýr!” Thranduil cried.

His son paused, but did not look around. The king reached out.  
“Elvýr. _I am so sorry!_ ” And the ravening agony ate at his guts. He felt warm blood flow from the thorns that clasped his head as if they flexed and grew, biting deep.

“ _Adar?_ ” The word came hesitantly, strangely distant.

“Yes. My son. Look at me!” He pulled Elvýr about, but his head was bowed, hidden under all that pale hair. “Look at me. Forgive me – ” His throat closed on tears.

“Do you love me, father?”

“How can you ask?” Thranduil whispered. “I love you. I have never ceased to love you.”

“No,” Elvýr sighed. “You do not.” He drew away, shaking back the winter-gold mane in a familiar gesture, and the king froze. Legolas looked back at him, his eyes gone dark as the pool.  
“You do not love me, _adar._ ”

 _Do not love me...  
Not love...  
Not..._

  
Thranduil felt himself plunge to his knees as Legolas walked away into a blaze of light. He fell through the grass, the earth, the deep secret roots, the rocks, and into red pain...and darkness. A wolf was howling as it devoured his soul.

He woke rolling from his bed, his hair tangled about his wrists, his thighs, clinging to the perspiration the dream had painted on his naked flesh. His breathing came hard, his chest was constricted, his face wet. He traced a hand across it, half-expecting to see blood, but there was only the salt of tears.

The chamber closed back over silence. Thranduil sat back against the bed, pulled up his knees and rested his head against them.

When his body-servant knocked, much later, he found the king's chambers empty.  
No-one knew the ways of the halls or the movements of its people better than the king. And no-one knew better how to leave unseen.

 

~~~

 

 

 _Bainalph, by the wonderful Esteliel on Lux Render. *hearts*_

 

 

 

 

 

This series continues in _A Far, Fierce Sky._


End file.
